LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Shelf. ^-^^^^ 




WILD FLOWERS 



"THE MOUNTAIN-SIDE." 



POEMS AND DRAMAS. 



BY 

3 Ay^ MERCEDES. ^^ ,. ^, . ^^ . 



^ 



Read from some humbler poet, 

Whose songs gushed from his heart, 

As showers from the clouds in summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start. 

Longfellow. 




PRESS OF 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., PHILADELPHIA. 
1885. 



7^5 Z3 S"? 



Copyright, 1884, by the Mother Superior of the Sisters of Mercy, St. Xavier's 
Convent, Westmoreland Co., Pa. 



\ VENERATED FATHER, 

> 

i RT. REV. MICHAEL O'CONNOR, D.D., S.J, 

V AND OUR 

BELOVED FRIEND, 

RT. REV. JAMES O'CONNOR, D.D., 

ONE DEAD, ONE LIVING, 

THESE 

WILD FLOWERS FROM "THE MOUNTAIN-SIDE," 

WHERE 

BOTH SPENT MANY HAPPY HOURS OF THE PAST, 

ARE 
REVERENTLY AND GRATEFULLY 

DEDICATED. 



Extract from a Letter to the Author from His Grace 

The Most Reverend P. f. RyaJt, D.D., 

Archbishop of Philadelphia. 



" I HAVE had time to cull only a few of your ' Wild 
Flowers,' and these seem to exhale the poetic fragrance. 
You disarm all hostile criticism in your preface, by your 
declaring that the flowers are wild, and not originally in- 
tended for the eye of cold criticism, but, above all, by your 
forming them into a bouquet to be placed at the bedside 
of the sick and dying, and by your devoting the proceeds 
of their sale to the benefit of the ' Mercy Hospital.' I 
hope you will be entirely successful in this beneficent 
purpose." 

Your obedient servant, 

t P. J. RYAN, 
ArchbisJiop of Philadelphia. 
Philadelphia, November 3, 1884. 



PREFACE. 



To send forth a volume of poems, to meet the "iron 
verdict" of the world at the present day, is indeed a haz- 
ardous thing. Were motives of ambition or personal 
enrichment the spur, one might well draw back afraid, but 
the work, in this case, is undertaken in the sweet name of 
Mercy, and self-consciousness is forgotten, in the earnest 
desire to do even a little good in the cause of poor 
suffering humanity. In one of our Western cities, where 
the smoke of a hundred foundries hangs over the house- 
tops day and night, and where sickness and suffering have 
grim lists, a new hospital is in process of erection close 
beside an old one, where the poor, the sick, and the maimed 
are gently tended by religious hands. Through the long 
wards the black-robed, black-veiled figures swiftly glide, 
cooling burning lips, bathing fevered brows, whispering 
of God and Heaven to the parting soul in its death-throes. 
With cheering words and skilful hand do they soothe the 
poor crushed victim of some awful disaster, the very de- 
scription of which, in a daily paper, makes men shudder. 
The generous public in this Western city have by their 
contributions begun this new hospital, thereby showing their 
knowledge and appreciation of the labors of these Sisters of 



8 PREFA CE. 

Mercy ; but it is yet unfinished, and when finished it must be 
supported. To help then, be it ever so Httle, is the mis- 
sion of this volume. It goes forth an humble cluster of 
" Wild Flowers," gathered from the " exuberant garden 
of a human heart" to pick up a mite here and there, and to 
leave in return not only the faint perfume it may perhaps 
bring to some reader, but the eternal reward of that virtue 
which "covers a multitude of sins." 

Of the intrinsic merits of the book there is not much to 
be said. Written mostly in early years, with never a 
thought of publication, these poems may present a broad 
field for the critic; any one versed in English prosody may 
score the errors. But there are heart, and soul, and faith 
here too ; and if the measures run not* smoothly, do we 
not remember that where wild floivcrs groiv the brook and 
rivulet are musical only by the obstructions in their chan- 
nels, while the flowers are sweet and their hues most deli- 
cate notwithstanding? So, then, we will send our " Wild 
Flowers" on their mission, and may He who said, " Not 
even a cup of cold water given in My Name shall lose its 
reward," make this volume " twice blessed," blessing 

" Him that gives and him that takes." 

St. Xavier's, Beatty, Pa., 
June 13, 1884. 



CONTENTS. 



PART I. 
POEMS. 

PAGE 

The Heart- Angel . . . . . . . . . 13 

Christmas is Coming .......... 14 

Tribute to the Sisters of Mercy, Pittsburgh . . . . . -15 

Message of the Lilies . . . . . . . . . -17 

Imogene ............ 18 

Lucia — Light . . . . . . . . . . -19 

The Ciborium Veil . . . . . . . . . .21 

Sunday Chimes ........... 23 

A June Reverie . . " . . . . . . . . .24 

Which? 25 

An Anniversary ........... 29 

Waiting . . . ... . . . . . . -31 

Baby Harold :i^ 

Lines on a Picture of the Crucifixion ....... 33 

The Disappointment .......... 35 

The Granite Cross .......... 38 

Old Matthew's Picture 39 

Irish Sea- Weed ........... 46 

The Old Cistern 47 

Little Sister Jennie .......... 48 

Silver Jubilee of the Cathedral ........ 49 

A Night-Song 52 

Soul to Soul ........... 53 

Struggle : Peace ........... 55 

Gathering " Clover" .......... 57 

The Graduate's Farewell ......... 58 

A Birthday in Lent 61 

9 



lO 



CONTENTS. 



PAGt 

Lines to E. of H. M. 6i 

No Mother 62 

How the Angels Heard a Mass ........ 63 

What are they Doing at Home To-Night ? . . . . . .70 

Lyric to the Sacred Heart . . . . . . . . .71 

My Grandmother's Spinning- Wheel ....... 72 

Tribute to a Friend .......... 74 

Faded Flowers after Benediction ....... 74 

A Dream ............ 75 

Corpus Christi ........... 79 

The Old Home of Happy School-Days ...... 80 

Fritz 82 

Gracie ............ 84 

The Soul-Cry on New Year's Eve ....... 85 

The Mystic Lily 88 

After Benediction . . . . . . . • . . .89 

A Pyx-Case ........... 90 

One Year Ordained .......... 92 

Crowned by the World ......... 93 

The Epiphany-Star .......... 97 

In Memoriam ...........99 

Quarter to Seven . . . . . . . . . .100 

The Sisters' Cemetery ........ . 102 



PART II. 

DRAMAS. 



PAGE 

Dolores; or, Through the Fires of Sorrow . . . . . .115 

The Child Heroine Marie 177 

Dottie's Dream ........... 225 

The Reproof of the Flower-Angel ....... 244 

A Legend of the Rainbow ........ 252 



PART I. 



POEMS. 



THE HEART-ANGEL. 

Have you felt in the evening silence 

When the daylight went to sleep, 
When the birds had ceased their twittering, 

And the dews begun to weep, 
An unseen touch upon you, 

A Presence, sweet and calm, 
That softened your heart like the music 

Of an Angel's tender psalm ? 

Did it touch your soul with soothing? 

Did it lift you -up to peace ? 
Did it open gates of gladness? 

Did it make your grieving cease ? 
Did your soul draw closer Heaven, 

Leaving earthly sorrow apart ? 
Then I tell you that unseen Presence 

Was the Angel of your Heart. 

Fond mothers may see some idol, 

Kiss brows that are pure and white, 
And brothers behold a sister 

With eyes all loving and bright. 
And friend clasp a hand all trusting. 

Or rest on a bosom's peace ; 
Each knoweth his own Heart-Angel, 

And the gladness will never cease. 

Each heart hath its separate Angel ; 
The Master ordained it so, 

13 



H 



CHRISTMAS IS COMING. 

To soften the hours of exile 
In this valley of pain and woe. 

'Tis a relic of sweet lost Eden, 
The joy that must ever start, 

The brightness that mem'ry brings us, 
With the Angel of the Heart. 

So when twilight cometh in silence, 

And the toils of the day are done. 
The sweet Heart-Angel cometh 

And claimeth us for its own. 
And in blissful union we linger 

'Neath the moonlight's silver bars, 
And forget there is aught of sorrow 

Under the shining stars. 



CHRISTMAS IS COMING. 

Christmas is coming ! 

Over the land the tidings are borne. 

Borne by the snow-fairies, borne by the frost-spirits, 

Christmas is coming ! God's peace to all ! 

Christmas is coming ! 

Into our houses the echoes are brought. 

Brought by the home-angels, brought by our little ones, 

Christmas is coming ! good will to all ! 

Christmas is coming ! 

Down in our hearts old graves open wide. 
Open and give us back treasures departed, 
Christmas is coming ! God help us all ! 



TRIBUTE TO THE SISTERS OF MERCY. 

Christmas is coming! 

Out of the steeples the church-bells are pealing, 
Pealing sweet music, pealing old anthems, 
Christmas is coming ! God bless us all ! 

Christmas is coming ! 
Creation is ringing with ecstatic singing, 
Singing of Angels, of Saints, and of good men, 
Christmas is comin? ! God loves us all ! 



15 



TRIBUTE TO THE SISTERS OF 
MERCY, PITTSBURGH, 

ON THEIR GOLDEN JUBILEE, DECEMBER I2th, 1831-81. 

A STAR springs up in the far-off East, 

The golden harbinger of a feast ! 

And it speeds its course on the Night's fair breast, 

A magical courier out to the West. 

Soft zones of radiance wreathing the sky, 

Catch the pinions of years that have hurried by, 

And, bringing them back, flood their story with light 

And beauty and joy on this festival night. 

And from shore to shore o'er the billowy sea. 
Wherever the Order of Mercy may be. 
The star sings, " Golden Jubilee !" 

Lo ! hear the rustle of wonderful wings. 
And the sound of music from golden strings ; 
See! tender spirits are circling around 
And guarding the precincts of Convent-ground. 



1 6 TRIBUTE TO THE SISTERS OF MERCY. 

" Mercy and Truth have met each other;' 
Wreathing the brow of a sainted Mother ! 
" Justice and Peace each other have kissed" 
'Neath the night's deep arch of amethyst. 

While from shore to shore o'er the billowy sea, 
Wherever the Order of Mercy may be, 
Its star sings, " Golden Jubilee!" 

Look! yonder group in the heavens bright, 
They are clothed like the lilies, in vesture white, 
And the beautiful gleam of their loving eyes 
Wakes the soul to a vision of Paradise. 
Poverty ! Chastity ! see them come ! 
And Obedience points to the Convent-home. 
For Faith and Hope and Charity there 
Lift their golden heads like a pictured prayer, 
While over the land and over the sea. 
Wherever the Order of Mercy may be. 
Its star sings, " Golden Jubilee !" 

And tiny bands of Seven and Seven 
Pour forth from crystal gates of Heaven, 
And dropping their dazzling gifts afar, 
They kindle abroad the light of the star. 
The " Poor," the " Sick," with a gladsome cry. 
Are reaching their hands out they know not why, 
And the darkened brows of " the Ignorant" shine 
With a halo reflected from light divine. 
While over the land and over the sea. 
Wherever the Order of Mercy may be, 
Its star sings, " Golden Jubilee !" 

Oh, Catharine McAuley ! oh, saint of to-night! 
Ten thousand souls has thy love made bright; 



MESSAGE OF THE LILIES. 

'Tis fifty years since this seed, broadcast, 
Met the darkness of earth and the wintry blast ; 
That band of Three ! it has passed away, 
But its work shines out this Jubilee Day, 
And with hearts exulting, her children claim 
A Foundress — a Saint — in a Mother's name, 
And over the land and over the sea. 
Wherever the Order of Mercy may be. 
They'll crown her this Golden Jubilee. 



17 



MESSAGE OF THE LILIES. 

TWELVE STATELY CALLAS. 

Lilies white, lilies grand! 
Bearing a message I understand ; 

Lifting your stately chalices up 
Like an emperor's pearl-and-gold-bound cup. 

What is so noble, pure, and fair, 

So chastely royal, so loftily rare, 

As the wondrous snow-white 

Lily! 

Lilies white, lilies grand ! 
How stainless you look as you lie in my hand ! 

Like altar-linens your vesture seems. 
Or Madonna robes in ethereal dreams ; 

I think of Heaven, throbbing with light, 

Of ivory thrones, and souls as white 

As the spotless, stately 

Lily ! 



1 8 IMOGENE. 

Lilies white, lilies grand ! 
I have read your message, I understand. 
See, I take the kingliest, make it a shrine 

For human hearts, two more, and mine ; 
I place it close to the marble Door, 
Where streams of light unceasingly pour, 

And graces will flow, ah, sweet and rare ■ 

To the hearts in the shrine of the 

Lily! 



IMOGENE. 

Died July 2, 1881. 



Lonely, lonely, is the homestead, 
Sad the faces young and fair; 

From the bright and happy circle 
One is missed forever there. 

Little face so pure and tender. 
Azure eyes and brow serene. 

Voice and footstep music ever. 
This, our ana;el Imosene. 

Lily-bud, the angels wooed thee. 
Hid thee 'neath their snowy wings, 

Bore thee to the Master's Bosom, 

There to bloom 'mid heavenly things. 

Though our burning tears are falling, 
Though our hearts are sore with pain, 

Would we take thee back from Heaven ? 
Do we wish thee here aeain ? 



LUCIA— LIGHT! 19 

Shall we grieve as those whose bosoms 

Know not hope of future grace ? 
No ! for in the far-off Heaven 

We can see thy radiant face. 

See it smile in sweetest blessing, 

See it gazing down with love, 
See thy little hands outstretching, 

Winning us to look above. 

Hushing then our poor hearts' yearning, 

On the Cross our hope we lean ; 
One more angel guards the household, 

Darling" little Imogene. 



LUCIA— LIGHT! 

December 13. 

'Mid the trembling purple shadows 

That drape the departing day, 
I pause in the hastening darkness 

Ere I lay my book away. 
And I fold my hands for a moment 

On the pages I cannot see. 
To link the beautiful mem'ries 

That their story brings to me. 

I have read with deepest devotion 

('Tis her festival to-night) 
Of the tender martyred maiden. 

Whose glorious name means " Light. 



20 LUCIA— LIGHT! 

From the dim old catacomb ages 
That Light flows sweetly down, 

Through the Church's glorious Missa, 
In waves of sacred renown. 

But the name, — St. Lucy, martyr, 

This quiet hour is fraught 
With a new and reverent beauty, 

Because of another thought. 
It carries me over the ocean, 

To a chapel shadowed and dim, 
To a bier with a quiet burden, 

To the tones of a sad-voiced hymn. 

And out of the murmuring music, 

And out of the shadows quaint, 
There gleams, like an image of marble, 

The beautiful face of a saint. 
White as the snow-drifts of Heaven, 

Smooth are the life-lines there. 
On the eyelids the seal of the Angel, 

A hush on the lips like prayer. 

Her habit is folded about her. 

Drapery meet for the Nun ; 
The veil softly shadows her forehead, 

Life's solemn labor is done. 
Peace to thee ! dear Sister Lucy, 

Peace ! with its dower of rest. 
Peace! for thy exile is over: 

Thou hast reached the Home of the Blest. 

I think of the record in Heaven, 
The mother, the widow, the nun. 



THE CIBORIUM VEIL. 2 1 

Of the lives she hved for the Master, 
Of the mission she strove for and won. 

And down the slope of Life's evening 
She meekly wandered, alone ; 

No heart-string clung to the off'ring 
Laid down on the Altar-throne. 

Oh ! woman heroic and valiant, 

Oh ! aged and mortified saint. 
The weight of the burden is lifted, 

Thou'rt far from Life's sorrowful plaint. 
Thy name was the " Light," like thy Saviour, 

Thy path was the Calv'ry He trod ; 
Thy life bore the cross of His bidding, 

And thy rest is the Bosom of God. 

So these are the fragrant heart-thoughts 

That come with the waning light, 
Draping my soul with beauty 

On this St. Lucy's night. 
And now 'mid the deepening darkness 

That hides the departed day, 
I rise from my dreaming fancies 

And I lay my book away. 



THE CIBORIUM VEIL. 

A LABOR OF LOVE. 

Softly and warm the April sun 
Is gilding the western sky, 

And I sit and rest in the dreamy light. 
With my finished Work laid nigh. 



22 THE CIBORIUM VEIL. 

The sunlight ghstens amid the fringe 
And plays in each silken fold ; 

It throws a glow on the painted buds 
Or lingers amid the gold. 

Finished ! Beautiful, sacred work ! 

How holy thy destiny ! 
Dwelling with Jesus all alone 

Where His heart has chosen to be. 
Only the Mother at Nazareth, 

Weaving the " robe without seam," 
Shines out the Model of my work 

Like the tender star of a dream. 

Once, my Lord, in Pilate's hall 

They robed Thee in purple there. 
And once Thy garment was scarlet dyed 

Under Gethsemane's prayer ; 
But here are purple, scarlet, and gold, 

In the veil I have 'broidered, see! 
And here half hid are mystical types 

Of the gifts I would offer Thee. 

A cross and an oak-leaf! this, for Faith, 

Hope's anchor, with ivy green, 
A heart, for Charity, — passion-flowers, — 

A lily, thorn-wreathed, between ! 
These grand, rare virtues give me. Lord, 

In life, in death impart 
Faith, Hope, Charity, Purity ! 

Till I rest in the joy of Thy Heart. 



SUNDAY CHIMES. 23 



SUNDAY CHIMES. 

Sitting all alone 

Sunday afternoon 
With a quiet light 

Through my pleasant room ; 
How the silence speaks ! 
What a world it tells ! 
Or perhaps it is 

The music of the bells. 

Yes, yes ! 'tis the bells ! list, list, how they ring, 
And the mellow tones rise, as the brazen tongues swing ; 
Some of them loud, and some of them low, 
Wide-mouthed, and iron throats, hear how they go : 
The air is all music, and far in the sky 
The echoes, all fainting, and tremulous die. 

Sitting all alone. 

Silence in the air, 
Listening to my heart. 

Little silence there. 

Only in whispers are voices heard there. 
Sometimes 'tis passion, sometimes 'tis prayer ; 
Methinks that the heart is a belfry of chimes 
Rung by good angels, or bad ones betimes ; 

For mournful music floats, 
Then soothing, tender notes ; 
Again, a tinkling airy 
Like laughter of a fairy. 



24 A JUNE REVERIE. 

Then sobbing tones 
Like broken moans ! 
A minor strain 
Like autumn rain, 
One bell 
Sounds a knell 
Then silence. 

Sitting all alone 

Listening to the din, 

Church-bells on the air 
Heart-bells deep within. 



A JUNE REVERIE. 

In the soft warm glow of the afternoon 

I sit alone in my pleasant room. 

Alone with all the familiar things 

That fold me and soothe me like restful wings. 
The flowers stir on my window-sill, 
My bird beats his golden wires still ; 
But from other sounds I turn apart 
And seek my Picture, — the Sacred Heart ; 
And those Eyes that follow me seem to say, 
" Child of my Heart, oh, come and pray ;" 
And I murmur half consciously on the way, 
" Eyes of Jesus, fixed on me, 
Draw my wayward heart to Thee !" 

I read, I think, I move about, 

The children enter with eleeful shout. 



WHICH? 25 

Then away they patter! — I am alone ! 
The sun slopes down to his western throne, 
The golden glow steeps my pictured walls, 
And over the beautiful Face it falls. 
O'er the slender Hands, and the wound-marks there, 
O'er the haunting Eyes that call me to prayer, 
And I lift my heart to that Heart above, 
And my spirit folds its wings like the dove. 
And I utter a soul-cry with tender love, 
" Heart of Jesus ! cleft for me. 
Let me hide myself in Thee !" 

Twilight and starlight softly fall 

And steal the glow from my pictured wall, 

The purple darkness gathers about, 

And busy traffic is stilled without ; 

But the crimson lamps on my mantel start 

A life-like hue in the Sacred Heart, 

And the yearning Eyes in the tender Face 

Follow and haunt me like touches of grace ; 

And safe in the darkness my hands I fold. 

And offer my life to that love untold. 

And murmur the prayer that will never grow old 

" Heart of Jesus, pierced for me, 

Let me live and die in Thee !" 



WHICH? 

AN IDEAL. 



In the shade of the Convent gardens, 
At the foot of our Lady's Shrine, 

Sat a cluster of white-veiled maidens, 
Waiting the Vesper chime. 



26 WHICH ? 

The wealth of the golden summer 

Lay on the panting earth, 
Sunshine and odorous flowers, 

And birds with songs of mirth. 

Like doves with folded pinions. 

They sat in the peaceful shade ; 
Music was murmuring near them 

Where the rippling fountain played. 
Their young souls brimmed with gladness, 

That boon to the pure heart given, 
And their far-off looks were telling 

Their thoughts were resting in Heaven. 

Close to the fountain's margin 

Two faces, wondrously fair, 
I^ay on the silver waters. 

Mirrored perfectly there. 
Alike in the wistful glances 

That upward ever were set, 
But still most strikingly different, 

Constance and Antoinette. 

Slender and tall and stately 

The novice Constance moved, 
A queen unconscious of beauty. 

In that peaceful solitude. 
The deep, bright eyes were shining 

With the great heart speaking there. 
And the light on the perfect features 

Lifted one's soul to prayer. 

Pale and fragile and childlike 
Was the novice, Antoinette ; 



WHICH? 

One rarely saw the blue eyes 

'Neath the long brown lashes set ; 

But the crimson waves passing over 
The delicate features told 

The love that had brought her hither 
Was more than the heart could hold. 

To-day they sat at the fountain, 

And the Mother-Mistress saw 
High thoughts were filling their bosoms 

With feelings akin to awe. 
Said she, " My children, tell us 

Of the Holy Spirit's touch ; 
What would ye do for the Master 

Who loveth us all so much ?" 

And the glorious eyes of Constance 

Flashed back her full heart's fire, 
" Oh, Mother, if truly could we 

Be what our hearts desire, 
I would wish to be more than a seraph 

In love, in love divine ; 
I would dare to wish for His honor 

As a glorious light to shine. 
To shine through the earth's lone pathways, 

To burn in the human breast. 
To fill the world with His love ! His love ! 

E'en a little, — He'd do the rest." 

" Child !" said the tender Mother, 

" Only the humble may sJiine, 
Rare and costly the gems that hide 

In the deepest depths of the mine. 



27 



WHICH? 

The raving blast may extinguish 
The brightest, steadiest light, 

And woe is the bitter darkness 
Of the terrible desolate night !" 

Then her eye sought the gentle features 

Of her child-like Antoinette ; 
" What is the thought of your sister? 

She has not spoken yet." 
The blue-gray eyes were lifted. 

Deep musings were haunting there, 
And the face was the face of an angel, 

Disturbed from adoring prayer. 

" My dear Sister Constance has chosen 

So grandly noble a part, 
'Tis truly a fitting mission 

For her lofty, generous heart. 
I," and the eyes dropped quickly 

To the grass and tender leaves, 
" I, like a poor wood-violet, 

Could be but an odor that breathes. 

" Close to His feet I should murmur 

All day long my prayer, 
And the sweetness He showers upon me 

Would spread abroad from there. 
I should not dare to leave Him, 

I'd surely falter and die. 
But t\\Q fragrance would gather others 

To love Him better than I." 

Silence fell on the cluster 

Of white-veiled maidens there ; 



AN ANN/ VERSA R Y. 

The Vesper bell was chiming, 

And they quickly glided to prayer; 

But each was earnestly saying, 
Down in the depths of her heart, 

" A Light that shines, an Odor that breathes, 
Which is the higher part ?" 



29 



AN ANNIVERSARY. 

" SACERDOS IN /ETERNUM." 

What are these folded years? 
These short, dim cycles of a fleeting past. 
Brief records of thy woven hopes and fears, 
Sharp griefs, or joys too beautiful to last. 
Gleam they with merit, rich like precious ore, 
And will they crown thee in the evermore? 

"Time is our share of God's Eternity !" 

Thy office in His ritual comes from Heaven; 

It has no share in time, 'tis unbound, free, 

Its seal in David's royal music given. 

Ah ! will these years anointed be thy crown 

When thou art called to lay thine armor down ? 

Canst call to mind the morning when they knelt 
Before the altar where God's glory dwelt? 
What awe then thrilled thee through the mystic rite 
That made thee sacred in the angels' sight. 



30 



AN ANNIVERSARY. 

Dost mind thee, how thy very soul was bowed 
When first the consecrating words thou said'st aloud ? 
Dost mind the chrism's touch upon thy palms, 
The wondrous meaning of thy bound-up hands r 
Twelve years ago ! See ! how the time rolls by ! 
Measuring its rapid flight unceasingly. 

Toil has been thine, and heaviness of heart, 
So much to do, and thou so small a part ; 
Souls lost and fainting, evils still abroad, 
Small, poor, and scant the harvest of the Lord. 
Nay ! 'tis not so, one rescued soul counts more 
In Heaven's sight than nations' wealth and lore ! 

And who can count the souls that thou hast won. 
Or who can tell the marvels thou hast done. 
What wealth of sacramental power outpoured, 
Thou fervent minister of Christ the Lord! 
Thy words, thy every step, thy sacred hands 
Uplifted where the holy altar stands. 
Twelve years of treasure ! yea, twelve years of grace, 
Made glorious by the light of Jesus' Face. 

And then thy heavenly crown ! thy dazzling throne, 
The beauteous radiance of the Lamb thereon. 
What rills of light will bathe thy anointed palms, 
What rapturous thanksgiving mark thy psalms, 
And most thy bliss, when every joy will show 
Some soiil thou saved'st here, in toil, below. 



WAITING. 31 



WAITING. 

A PICTURE. 

Not a study from a master with a grand Italian name, 
Ancient coloring, faded outlines, and Time's finger on the 

frame. 
No! around my perfect picture shine no charms of studied 

art, 
Mine is but a tender mem'ry, 'tis a picture of the heart. 

Come, my heart, unveil thy picture, place it in the softest 

light; 
Mark its figures, see the faces, tell the shadow and the 

bright ; 
Raise the drapery of Mem'ry, touch it with her golden 

hand. 
Lift it high that all may see it, none will fail to understand. 

Framed within a Gothic door-way, traced by vine and 

trumpet-flower, 
Some upon the marble threshold, some within the verdant 

bower. 
Sat the group that form my picture ; all are " waiting" to 

depart. 
No one utt'ring word of sorrow, yet a shadow in each heart. 

Wistful little childish faces, tender eyes of blue or gray. 
Little hands in patience folded, heads turned to the car- 
riage-way ; 
Other faces in the door-way, smiling on the tender eyes. 
Smiling at their youthful ardor, smiling at their quick- 
surprise. 



32 WAITING. 

Other faces softly shadowed by the wimple and the veil, 

Faces where God's light is shining, though the outer sun- 
shine fail, 

Quiet figures, near the children, like their guardian spirits 
stand, 

Watching them with loving glances, holding fast each 
tiny hand. 

There is one who in the picture glorifies its beauty now. 
With His eyes so kind and holy, and His grave and serious 

brow, 
" Father," so the children call Him, claims He place in each 

young heart, 
He is waiting with the children, all are waiting to depart. 

One there is with curls all golden, one there is with laugh- 
ing face, 

One there is with wondering blue eyes, one with mark of 
rarest grace. 

" Father," smiling on the children with His hand on sunny 
brow. 

Framed within that Gothic door-way stands the wondrous 
picture now. 

Ah ! we're " Waiting," ever waiting, as the days roll swiftly 

by. 

For our Father's message to us, from the far-off azure sky ; 
One day He will touch our foreheads, whispering, " Come, 

my child, depart ! 
Haste, the weary waiting's over, come and rest upon my 

Heart !" 



BABY HAROLD. 



BABY HAROLD. 

A Lily-bud upon the bosom 

Of life's dark stream, 
And groups of silent angels watching 

Like Heavenly dream. 

A pause. The little soul they're bearing 

Up to the Throne, 
And God stoops down and clasps the bud, 

It is His own. 

Then swells the glorious anthem 

'Mid silver strings, 
The music of the babes in Heaven, — 

Dazzling things. 

Beautiful darling, with the first dawning 

Of life's bright day. 
Came the white angels, silently, swiftly, 

Bore him away. 



33 



LINES ON A PICTURE OF THE CRU- 
CIFIXION. 

Gazing on this wondrous Picture 

Here before me as I pray. 
Earthly thoughts and restless longings 

Drift away. 
3 



34 



LINES ON A PICTURE OF THE CRUCIFIXION. 

Drift away, — the great world seeming 

But a busy hum of Hfe, 
Peace within my soul displacing 
Weary strife. 

Ah ! my Picture, thou dost tell me 

Of the Calvary where He died. 
Through the gloom I see my Saviour, 
Jesus Crucified. 

See the nails His dear Hands rending, 

As those saw who once " passed by ;" 
Torture, love, and sorrow blending, 
Jesus, why ? 

See the thorns His Brow entwining, 

See the livid marks of blows. 
Insult, mockery combining, 

Why these woes ? 

See the open arms inviting. 

See the wounded Feet and Side, 
Human hate, such love requiting, 
Crucified ! 

Sinner ! 'tis for me He's bleeding. 

Thus He loved me, thus He tried, — 
Tried to win my love, — dear Jesus ! 
Thus He died ! 

Thus Himself delivered for me. 

Loving Heart ! what bitter throes ! 
Broken Heart! e'en lifeless riven 
By His foes. 



THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 35 

Thus He loved me ! was there ever 

Love like this, so touching, sweet? 
Tears like Magdalen's I pour out 

On His Feet. 

Tears, heart-broken tears of sorrow, 
Would they might outpour alway, 
Sin and human weakness bearing 

Far away ! 

Ah ! my Saviour, here I give Thee 

Love, and life, and heart, and soul. 
Of my being, Lord, forever 

Take control. 

By Thy love, and by Thy Passion, 
Keep my soul from sin and loss. 
Help me, Lord, to die or suffer 

On the cross. 



THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 

A LESSON. 

I MEANT it should be so lovely, 

The rarest, choicest thing ; 
It should glow with the richest colors 

Palette and brush could bring. 
Sprays of trailing blossoms 

Should grow beneath my hand, 
Clusters of mossy rosebuds. 

And lilies white and grand. 



36 THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 

I used to see it before me 

When my eyes would close at night, 
My fancy would sketch the outlines 

And color them rich and bright. 
Oh ! I meant it should be so lovely, 

This " Hope" of mine "deferred," 
And I only patiently waited 

To hear the commending word 

I often saw it finished, 

And framed in a moulding of gold, 
And I felt 'twould be labor in sweetness 

More than could ever be told. 
I used to touch and re-touch it, 

Unfold a bud or a leaf, 
Throw a light on a tendril, 

Bring out a flower in relief 

The design? Four marble pillars, 

Shaft, and cornice, and base. 
Veined with the softest veining 

My finest brush could trace. 
The shafts should be fluted in shading, 

Corinthian cornice grotesque ; 
I should copy an exquisite model, 

A wonderful Arabesque. 

Round the snowy marble pillars 

Beautiful flowers should twine, 
Or creep from base to moulding 

With a graceful floating vine. 
Two of the pillars together 

Should stand at each fair end, 
In the wide silken space, the centre, 

Everything lovely should blend. 



THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 

A crown of glittering brightness, 

Encircling a golden cross, 
A half wreath of budding lilies, 

A motto in letters of moss, — 
Too much gold would be painful. 

The motto should rise from the flow'rs 
Each letter perfect in outline : 

This only, might cost me hours. 

Perhaps when this should be finished 

Some other thought might come. 
Ere it found its place at the Altar 

Of its beautiful, holy home. 
But, oh ! 'twas to be most lovely, 

This masterpiece in all time ! 
Impatient I longed to begin it. 

This " Hope deferred" of mine. 

But, ah ! like a broken rainbow 

Dissolved in a cloud of mist. 
My vision of joy and beauty 

Suddenly was disjiiissed ! 
Carelessly went the message 

That disappointed my heart, 
And almost choked my utterance, 

Like the sting of a sudden dart ! 

My heart had been set upon it. 

And the Disappointment was pain ; 
No artist could dream that picture of mine. 

And I'll never paint it again ; 
But I took the Lesson, and learned it. 

The " Hope deferred" for me 
Was a silent tearful struggle, 

And, I trust, a victory. 



37 



38 



THE GRANITE CROSS. 



THE GRANITE CROSS. 

IN MEMORIAM. 

There's a quiet, peaceful City, not many miles away. 
Where flowers bloom all summer and robins chirp all 
day. 

Each house holds a single inmate, no more admitted there ; 
Man, or woman, or infant, each has a single share. 

All day long come the people through the archways of the 

trees. 
In the spring-time, in the summer, winter snows, or autumn 

breeze. 

And the muffled footsteps falter as they leave new inmates 

there, 
With aching hearts and mourning, with sobs half stifling 

pray'r. 

Under the moss and daisies, under the waving grass. 
Silent, and cold, and pulseless, the dead lie as they pass. 

The people turn in sorrow, and back to the living go. 
And many forget their mourning, and a few live on in woe. 

The missing are soon forgotten, the sorrow passes away, 
While out in the Silent City the robin chirps all day. 
Now and then a mourner wanders along alone, 
To kneel by a grave fresh sodded or a monumental stone. 



OLD MATTHEW'S PICTURE. 3^ 

Were I in that quiet City, where the shadows fall on the 

moss, 
I would only kneel and linger by the side of a Granite 

Cross. 



OLD MATTHEW'S PICTURE. 

A TRUE STORY. 

PART FIRST. 

One morning, into shore, 
Sunlight steeping her o'er and o'er. 
Riding stately towards the strand, 
Wondrous and beautiful, strong and grand, 
Her prow dashing the waves aside. 
Breasting and parting the foamy tide, 
Heaved a proud steamer. 

All about 
Th' expectant voyagers stand without, 
Waiting with beating hearts the shout 
Of the sailors crying " Land !" 

At last the chains are down, 
Wild with excitement the human throng 
Gather, and press, and surge along. 
Friends are greeting and tears are flowing. 
While the soft land breeze is o'er them blowing 
The bright sun is smiling down o'erhead, 
While tender words of greeting are said. 
And back again o'er the ocean's foam 
Is borne the crv of " Welcome home!" 



40 



OLD MATTHEW'S PICTURE. 

But apart, 
Gazing timidly, his heart 
Shining in his eyes, one arm 
Guarding a Picture, as from harm. 
The other pressed by a woman's hands, 
An aged man in silence stands, 
Patiently waiting his turn to reach 
The busy crowds on the shining beach. 

Both are gray, 
Their cheeks are furrowed, and deep lines play 
About their lips, and about their eyes. 
As they fearfully glance, in their quick surprise; 
And the woman's eyes are brimming o'er 
As she wistfully glances toward the shore. 
" Courage, good wife !" said the man, at last ; 
" Thank God ! the dangers of sea are past. 
What though alone on a foreign shore. 
The Hand that guided us will do more. 
Praised be His goodness. He leaves me my life, 
My dear Madonna, and my wife." 

But tears roll over her wrinkled cheek, 

A tenderness deeper than tongue can speak, 

And a moan bursts forth on her quivering lip 

As she glances around the empty ship. 

" Matthew ! to-day, in the fields at home, 

Tliat sun shines down on our cabin lone. 

And you know how near are the graves of the 

boys, 
Our buried treasures, our earthly joys. 
Do you blame me, Matthew, that tears will come ? 
I've left my heart in those graves at home." 



OLD MATTHEW'S PICTURE. 

"Courage, good wife!" — but his voice grew low 
And husky; he thought of the long ago, 
When the boys were all round him in their glee, 
And no proud father was prouder than he. 
There was John, the eldest, sturdy and brave, 
The handsomest, noblest, yet first in the grave. 
And pale little Matthew, his namesake and pet, 
And Daniel and Stephen, he sees them all yet. 
And he sees their graves in the church-yard green, 
'The soft breeze parting the grass between. 
The sunlight touching the mounds with gold. 
And the scene all bathed as with peace untold. 
And the old man bowed his head and cried 
Like the trembling woman by his side. 

Hear the cry, as the sailors go by : 

" Rouse thee, man ; the crowd has gone ; 

Take thy wife and hasten home." 

" Home ? where's home ? for me, for her, 
On this strange shore, for the foreigner?" 

But he goes. 'Mid the city's bustle and strife 
We lose him, his Picture, and his wife. 

PART SECOND. 

Evening lay on a Western river 
Like rosy wine ; and many a quiver 
Marked the waves as they rose and swell. 
Kindling beneath the magic spell. 
Five peaceful years have passed away 
Since. Matthew landed that summer day, 
When with tears he thanked God " for his life, 
His dear Madonna, and his wife." 



41 



42 



OLD MATTHEW'S PICTURE. 

Full of faith, he had prospered, and found 
Friends and home on the foreign ground. 
Cheerfully toiling day by day. 
Their lives drifted on ; to work, to pray. 
To talk of the graves, was their wont to do 
As the sun went down on the aged two. 

But to-night 

Terror and fright 
Lay like a spell on the little home, 
For Death, it seemed, like a thief had come : 
The wife of his bosom lay speechless and pale, 
And Matthew's courage began to fail ; 
But his trust in Heaven was firm and strong, 
Though his vigils beside the couch were long. 
He thought of the wearisome waste of life, 
When she should be gone, his faithful wife. 
His heart was breaking; his old gray head 
Was sunk on his breast in terrible dread. 
Alone, on the pitiless world to be thrown ; 
To live, all alone, to die, all alone ! 
Oh, God ! 'twas more than his heart could bear, 
And Matthew in agony turned to prayer. 

Above the bed the Madonna hung, 

A Raphael whose praises had oft been sung; 

For Matthew would say, beyond his life 

He loved " this Picture and his Wife ;" 

And the children loved it who were no more : 

So he brought it afar from his native shore. 

Indeed, the neighbors would smile when he'd say 

This heartfelt utterance day by day. 

And his " Wife and Picture" were quoted and told 

As the type of a love, pure and precious as gold. 



43 



OLD MATTHEW'S PICTURE. 

With hot tears raining over his cheek, 
There on his knees without power to speak, 
The old man gazed on the faces mild, 
The sweet Madonna and the Child, 
And at last his heart-cry found a tone 
On his quiv'ring lips in this broken moan ; 

" Oh, Mother of God ! by thy sorrowful throes 

Look down on my heart, see its anguish and woes ; 

Restore me my wife and I give to thy altar 

This Picture I love as my life, nor will falter 

My vow in an instant fulfilment to make 

When my prayer has been granted for Christ's blessed sake. 

A calm like the breath of the soft summer breeze 

Stole into his heart, and he rose from his knees. 

His wife lived again ! and the grateful old pair 

To the Church brought the Picture, in tears laid it there. 

" Hang it over the altar," cried Matthew; " some other 

May need like relief from the dear blessed Mother. 

They will go to her feet for some favor, and ever 

Will find it, nor fear a refusal, no, never! 

Madonna !" he cried, " a last boon I pray : 

When Death comes again, tell him take botJi away !" 



PART THIRD. 

And still the sun 
Over the Western river swung. 
And Spring hung out her banner green, 
And Summer was empress of the scene, 
And Autumn gathered the grape and wheat, 
And Winter came with snow and sleet. 



44 



OLD MATTHEW'S PICTURE. 

Then back again to the desolate earth 
Spring returned with the flowers.' birth ; 
The aged couple still sat at their door, 
Still prayed together and gave to the poor. 

One still, soft eve in the month of May, 
Matthew had gone to the Church to pray, 
He knelt at the foot of the Picture dear, 
And prayed with a fervor that knew no fear 
That Heaven would grant his time to come, 
And dwell with God in the holy Home. 
A strange presentiment thrilled him o'er. 
And he hastened home with a secret awe. 

There in the porch sat his aged wife. 

Her head bent forward, at peace zvitJi life ! 

The wrinkles were gone from her aged brow, 

No tears in the faded blue eyes now. 

In her icy fingers her rosary lay. 

Her last sweet prayer that bright May-day. 

One sharp, quick cry brought the neighbors near ; 

They lifted up Matthew but saw no tear. 

Tenderly over the pulseless breast 

They folded her withered hands at rest • 

They smoothed the scanty silver hair, 

And wondered they never thought her fair. 

Her lips were smiling as though in sleep, 

And a strange sweet sadness made them weep. 

But Matthew wept not, no word he said. 

And they whispered, " Leave him alone with his dead. 

One by one they stole away ; 

The old man, they said, must weep and pray. 



OLD MATTHEW'S PICTURE. 

They closed the door, and darkness crept 
O'er the lonely watcher and her who slept. 
Tiie night wore on. The old man's prayer 
Was heard in Heaven and ansxvered there. 
When morning lifted its golden head 
The Watched and the Watcher botJi zvcre dead ! 

Two coffins stood in the shadowy aisle, 
The Madonna above them seemed to smile, 
For the last time together, at peace with life, 
The Picture, old Matthew, and his Wife. 

SEQUEL. 

And time rolled on. The Picture stayed 

In the humble Church where old Matthew prayed. 

At last they built a stately pile 

And forgot the Madonna ! 

'Twas but for a while : 

To a " Convent of Mercy" they brought it with care, 

And reverently hung the Picture there. 

So over that Convent altar to-day 

The Madonna smiles in her old-time way, 

And when sunset falls on the faces fair, 

The dark-veiled Sisters kneel in prayer, 

And after the Angelus-chime, is said, 

Softly and low, the Psalm for the dead, 

And mayhap they feel as they linger there 

All things are granted to Faith and Prayer. 



45 



46 IRISH SEA- WEED. 



IRISH SEA-WEED. 

Delicate crimson sea-weed, 

Finest of fairy lace, 
Found on the rocks of Erin, 

Caught in the waves' embrace ! 
Marvellous, exquisite, fragile. 

Feathery, soft and bright. 
Floating from some shell-palace 

Hidden deep from sight. 

Faintly odorous sea-weed, 

Covered with powdered brine, 
Relic of sweetest mem'ries 

To one in distant clime, 
Dweller 'neath Irish heaven ! 

Held on my finger-tips, 
Waft but a breath from Erin 

To a starving exile's lips ! 

Beautiful Irish sea-weed ! 

Mortals have strangest hearts, 
Quivering e'en to the eyelids. 

Dropping the tear that starts ! 
Chords of an inner music 

Wake with these soulless things, 
And the spirit flies to its magnet 

With a rush like mighty wings. 



THE OLD CISTERN. 47 



THE OLD CISTERN. 

In the depths of each heart Hes a casket of treasures, 

Homely rehcs, perhaps, that the world may despise, 
But which yield to us purest and holiest pleasures, 

And, striking the heart-spring, send tears to the eyes. 
Though changed be the scenes of our calm sunny childhood, 

We cling to the lowly mementos of yore, 
Though it e'en be a Cistern, a mossy-lined Cistern, 

A grass-covered Cistern that stands by the door. 

That old-fashioned Cistern ! how strangely 'tis blending 

With the grand stately pile that has risen around, 
But its wide homely mouth to my spirit is sending 

The joy of a music that nowhere I've found ; 
It tells me of forms full of youth, full of beauty, 

Of voices, of footsteps, I'll hear nevermore. 
Oh, much does it tell me, that ancient gray Cistern, 

The grass-covered Cistern that stands by the door. 

That rough, homely Cistern ! how vivid the mem'ries 

Of words that were said in the days that are past ! 
Methinks I can hear them, those clear silv'ry voices, 

That went like the flowers, so soon and so fast. 
A requiem sighs in the long grass above them. 

And naught but yon Heaven their forms can restore. 
The bright youthful faces that shone o'er the Cistern, 

The grass-covered Cistern that stands by the door. 

But joy, like a rich living western sunbeam. 

Comes over my soul with its light and its balm, 



48 LITTLE SISTER JENNIE. 

And I turn to the dear ones who gather around nie, 
And rest, as of old, in the Home sweet and cahn. 

Their voices, their faces, how chastened ! how peaceful ! 
Though the bright soul-lit eyes are the same as of yore,- 

The same that met mine once, beside the Old Cistern, 
The grass-covered Cistern that stands by the door. 



LITTLE SISTER JENNIE. 

Softly through the dying trees, 
Mingled with the autumn breeze, 

Rose the mournful funeral song; 
Vested priests the requiems singing. 
Cross aloft and censer swinging. 

Slow they bore the child along. 

Child she was, yes, scarce the seeming 
Of life's morning o'er her beaming. 

When it faded and she slept. 
Few the times the spring buds flushing 
Into summer roses blushing. 

Or the wintry heavens wept, 
Since her laugh had been the brightest. 
And her step the gayest, lightest 

Of the merry school-girl throng. 

But the Lord one word had spoken, 
Ties of love were quickly broken, 

And she brought her heart to Him. 
Gentle, simple, pure, and holy, 
Loved by all, and yet most lowly. 

Could she fail the prize to win ? 



SILVER JUBILEE OF THE CATHEDRAL. 49 

So like dew upon a flower, 
Or the stars at dawning hour, 

Softly did she pass away. 
In our little vale she's sleeping, 
Shade and sunlight o'er her creeping, 

Where the wild birds sing all day. 

Twilight shadows fast are stealing 
O'er the Sisters that are kneeling 

Round dear little Jennie's grave. 



SILVER JUBILEE OF THE CATHE- 
DRAL. 

SOLEMN PONTIFICAL MASS. 

Oh Ritual sublime ! majestic Rite ! 

Caught up to Heaven, I drink the sacred sight. 

Grouped at the awful altar there they stand, 

In golden robes, its wondrous Levite band, 

Their faces stamped with reverence and devotion, 

Vyith mystic meaning fraught each solemn motion, — 

The mitred Celebrant, the saintly Deacon, 

The High-Priest, nor do minor orders weaken 

Th' assisting ranks. All priests, all priests divine; 

Anointed all, to touch the bread and wine. 

A bard of ours writes well on other theme. 
We'll bend his metre to this mystic scene. 
For inspiration is not born of earth. 
The poet's richest chords owe Heaven their birth, 

4 



50 SILVER JUBILEE OF THE CATHEDRAL. 

And so to grasp his thought we will not falter, 
But let his rare ideal serve the altar. 

'* Over his keys the musing organist, 
Beginning doubtfully, and far away. 
First lets his fingers wander as they Hst, 
And builds a bridge from dreamland for his lay. 
Then as the touch of his loved instrument 
Brings hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, 
First guessed by faint auroral flashes sent 
Along the wavering vista of his dream."* 

So thus the organ murmured half in doubt 
The while they bore the sacred vestments out, 
But when they signed each brow and breast in prayer, 
A burst of music woke the solemn air. 
Voices to deep-toned diapason lent 
Their pleadings, in the " Kyrie" upsent. 
And every heart within the crowded fane 
Bowed low, and swelled the prayerful refrain. 

It dies away. The " Gloria's" joyous tone 
Through pillared arches rises to the throne. 
The " Collects" o'er, the " Epistle's" wondrous words 
Have ceased to echo in the hearts they stirred. 
And now a separate group apart have gone 
With clouds of incense and with lights upborne ; 
Like harpstring rich the Deacon's voice is heard. 
And all God's people rise to hear His Word. 

Oh Gospel of St. Luke ! it seems to me 
Thy story never ran so touchingly ; 

* Lowell. 



SILVER JUBILEE OF THE CATHEDRAL. 51 

Loud through the chambers of my heart to-day 

Those accents murmur as I kneel to pray. 

I see the Lord surrounded by the throng, 

That hides His Presence as He moves along ; 

I see the sycamore Zaccheus climbed, 

That he, so " low of stature," still might find 

The Face his inner soul, as yet but weak, 

Resistlessly impelled him thus to seek. 

All thrilled I hear the gentle Master say, 

" Make haste, Zaccheus, and come down ! This day 

I will abide here at thy house with thee !" 

Dear Lord, Thou sayest still the same to me. 

Ah ! how the memory bids my heart rejoice 

The while I listen to that rich deep voice ! 

I close my eyes and let its beauty roll. 

Like melody of Heav'n, through my soul. 

Oh ! souls of ours, so sensitive, to love 

And call tJiis Heaven, oh ! what is Heaven above ! 

The Heaven of light, of beauty, and of bliss. 

Where our Espousals pale a scene like this; 

The Heaven in which the Eternal Lamb is slain 

Upon the Eternal Altar o'er again. 

That sacrifice all endless, earth or Heaven, 

The Mass ! the holy Mass ! what more is given ! 

The memory of the Calvary where He died 

Rills from the prints in Hands, and Feet, and Side ! 

Divine and human, there thy Lord to see, 

And in the sweetness of the vision be 

In wordless bliss, for evermore at rest 

Upon the gentle Saviour's loving Breast ! 



52 



A N/GNT-SONG. 



A NIGHT-SONG. 

Moonbeams streaming o'er the mountain 

Bathe my home with silver h'ght, 
Dreamy music from the fountain 

Murmurs sweetly of the night; 
Peace and rest their wings extending 

O'er the world, around, above. 
Whisper, ere the night enfoldeth, 

Let us pray for those we love. 

Pray, for those we love. 

O'er the Convent silence reigneth, 

Save the murmured voice of prayer: 
Tender words in deep petition 

Utter blessings everywhere ; 
Voices from the heart ascending 

Pleading in the Heaven above, 
And the great world sinks to slumber 

While we pray for those we love. 
Pray, for those we love. 

Friends beloved, sleep in safety 

As we pray for peaceful rest. 
Angel forms will guard your pillow. 

Bring you visions pure and blest ; 
Through the moonlight and the silence. 

While the stars float on above. 
Murmured voices thrill your slumber. 

As we pray for those we love. 

Pray, for those we love. 



SOUL TO SOUL. 



53 



SOUL TO SOUL. 

From the " Flowers of St. Francis." 

I WAS reading to-day in the " Flowers," 

Those poems of exquisite grace, 
Where we seem to be Hst'ning to angels, 

Or speaking with saints face to face. 
I was reading one, lovelier than others, 

And I read it again and again. 
For it seemed, as I conned the page over, 

The richer its lesson became. 

You've read it ! The beautiful meeting 

Of Giles and King Louis of France, 
How their hearts were too full of God's sweetness 

To utter one word in their trance ; 
How they knelt at the Convent's gray portal. 

Enfolded on each other's breast, 
And parted without a word spoken, 

The Friar or Louis, his guest. 

Then the Brethren all sorrowful, learning 

That the King was so treated by Giles, 
Went forth to upbraid the dear Friar, 

And found him all beaming with smiles. 
" 'Twas surely," quoth they, " most uncivil, 

A King ! from afar — and a Saint ! 
Good Giles, not a word to have spoken ! 

The Convent doth ring with complaint." 



54 



SOUL TO SOUL. 

Methinks I can see the dear Friar 

Uplifting his meek, holy face, 
The smile of God's joy brimming over 

Each feature with beautiful grace. 
Methinks I can see the poor habit 

All shining with heavenly light, 
And list to his words full of wonder, 

Outfloating like music at night, 

" My brothers beloved, I pray you 

Grieve not o'er the things that you see ; 
I could not hold speech with King Louis, 

Nor could he hold converse with me. 
The weak tongue of man is too feeble 

His soul's thrilling rapture to tell, 
And words do but fetter the spirit ; 

In silence God's mysteries dwell. 

" And so the good King has departed 

O'erflowing with joy from above. 
Our God consolations imparted 

In silent communion of love. 
So brothers beloved, I pray you 

Grieve not o'er the things that you see; 
In silence my soul spoke to Louis, 

In silence his soul spoke to me." 

Do you wonder, my friend, that this " Flower' 

Has laid its soft touch on my heart ? 
That I hastened to gather its sweetness 

And muse on its mystical part? 
So I share you its peace and its gladness, 

Though together, our words are so few, 
But like Louis and Giles, in God's silence, 

Our souls will hold sweet converse too. 



STRUGGLE: PEACE. 55 

STRUGGLE: PEACE. 

"GO AND DO LIKEWISE." 

Alone in our dim sweet Chapel 

I knelt as the sun went down ; 
The twilight shadows thickened, 

And curtained me close around. 

The saints in the stained-glass windows 

Stood out in the misty light, 
And the statue of blessed Mary 

Seemed floating before my sight. 

Up through the open casement 

Came the lowing of drowsy kine. 
The bleating of sleepy lambkins, 
. The rustling of oak and pine ; 

The humming of myriad insects 

Out of the dewy grass. 
The sigh of the wandering zephyrs, 

That could only sigh and pass. 

Out on the lawn the children 

Were laughing in joyous glee, 
And like music the mellowed voices 

Were faintly borne to me. 

My heart was sad and restless. 

My soul was full of pain ; 
Closer I pressed to the altar, 

Though I seemed to pray in vain. 



56 STRUGGLE: PEACE. 

The star in its lamp of silver 

Trembled alone in space, 
And the air seemed full of shadows 

Peopling the holy place. 

Ah ! how my heart was throbbing ! 

I gazed at the marble Door, 
Praying His grace to aid me, 

And come to my help once more. 

All week I had fought and struggled 
On the unseen battle-field. 

But now I was spent and weary, 

And it seemed I would have to yield. 

My eyes with tears were heavy, 
My lips too parched for prayer, 

So I took my heart all quivering 
And laid it throbbing there. 

How long I knelt I knew not, 
I marked not the hours' flight; 

The Angels know the struggle 
They saw at His Feet that night. 

:{; :}c :}: ^ ^ 

Through the soft, encircling shadows 
At last came a thrill of Peace, 

And I calmly rose from His Presence; 
He had said to my heart-ache — Cease ! 



GA THERING " CLO VER. ' * 



57 



GATHERING "CLOVER." 

Ov'ER the city the sunset is streaming, 

Touching the housetops with crimson and gold ; 

Into my room comes the glow grandly beaming, 
Bathing its walls with a glory untold. 

But my heart, it has wings, the troublesome rover, 

It is out on the hill-side gathering clover. 

Vases of roses are near me, distilling 

Odors delicious as Eastern perfume. 
Soft strains of music are coming with twilight. 

Lifting my soul to the realm past the tomb. 
But my heart, don't I tell you ? the troublesome rover. 
It is out on the hill-side gathering clover. 

Sounds from the city grow fainter and fainter. 
Voices and footsteps they pass me in vain ; 

Over the smoke and the house-tops I'm soaring, 
Friends, dearest friends ! I am with you again, 

And my heart laughs aloud, the ridiculous rover. 

We are out on the hill-side gathering clover. 

Sweet sunny hill-side! dear tangled pathways! 

Bird-song and breeze are the music I hear; 
Bright, pleasant faces, hands full of roses, 

And the kind voices of friends gathered near ; 
Roses for them, but for me, foolish rover. 
Satisfied am I eatherincf clover. 



58 THE GRADUATE'S FAREWELL. 

Thanks be to God! there are moments of pleasure, 
Pure as the fountain and bright as the flow'rs, 

Sent us to Hghten earth's toil and its shadows, 
Sent to remind us of Eden's lost bowers. 

In Heaven, perhaps, the heart, once a rover, 

Will smile, looking back on its " Gathering Clover !" 



THE GRADUATE'S FAREWELL. 

A STRANGE and weary shadow lies upon my soul to-day ; 
Though all around is beautiful, is wondrous bright and gay, 
I feel because 'tis fading, the vision is so fair, 
Its tints of radiance so rich, its happy light so rare. 

Ah, yes ! my Home, long years have flown, and now I say 

Adieu 
To all the hallowed ties that bound my daily life to you ; 
For Hall and Class-room seem to say, in tender tones and 

mild, 
"The time has come, go forth alone; thou art no more a 

child." 

To-day 'mid all the busy glee that echoed everywhere 

I sought once more the class-room door, to see my desk 

and chair; 
''My desk, my chair, no longer," I murmured with a sigh, 
As mutely seemed tJiey too to breathe a last and sad 

Good-by. 



THE GRADUATE'S FAREWELL. 



59 



Oh, pleasant room ! oh, Convent-halls ! how oft we've 

lingered there, 
In merry groups, or silent, when we passed the haunt of 

prayer ! 
How oft we stole a visit to the Throne of tireless love, 
When childish troubles moved our souls to seek for peace 

Above ! 



Ah, yes ! when sterner years to come their weight of woe 

will bring, 
How often will our tired souls come back on mem'ry's 

wing 
To gaze again upon the peace, to dream once more the 

bliss, 
That poured into our youthful souls in moments spent like 

this ! 



There kneeling 'neath the Altar-lamp, its soft light floating 

down, 
And trembling on the Sacred Door, or kindling Mary's 

crown. 
The silent, holy Chapel seemed e'er filled with fragrance 

sweet. 
That must have come from Angels' censers swinging at 

His Feet. 

The image too of Mary, where dreamy odors rise 

From vases that our hands had filled with flow'rs of richest 

dyes. 
When turning, ere our Class began, to crave her blessing 

kind, 
A lightened heart and confidence we'd ever surely find. 



6o THE GRADUATE'S FAREWELL. 

Farewell to all these hallowed spots, the shadow darker 

grows, 
And o'er my saddened spirit now its gloomy widening 

throws. 
But, oh ! dear Alma Mater, teach us as we say Adieu 
To guard the priceless lessons that our hearts first learned 

from you. 



Loved teachers, we must leave you, and though the coming 

years 
Seem bright as hues prismatic when we gaze through 

falling tears, 
We know there is no rarer light, no joys so pure and 

sweet. 
As those our young hearts tasted as we gathered at your 

feet. 



We know God holds the future in His Heart of tender 

love, 
We know a destiny is wrought for us in Heaven above ; 
We, women of the coming day our holy Faith must 

hold. 
And prove our high-born mission here by deeds and words 

of gold. 

Companions, friends, we leave you, no more with you to 

roam. 
Light-hearted school-girls, through the halls of this our 

Convent home; 
We leave the fair horizon of a wild and careless glee 
To launch our timid, trembling bark upon Life's troubled 

sea. 



A BIRTHDAY IN LENT. 6 1 

Once more, then, Alma Mater, dear Hall, each fav'rite spot, 
Companions loved, and teachers kind, that ne'er will be 

forgot. 
Once more with fond affection, deeper than words can tell, 
We utter from our swelling hearts a loving, sad Farewell. 



A BIRTHDAY IN LENT. 

As we grow old 
Our Birthdays are the " Stations" of our lives. 
At each to pause and take a little breath. 
Then looking back upon the year that's gone. 
Resume the " Via Crucis" on to death ; 
The via crucis of our thorn-crowned King, 
Until the Gates of Pearl shall backward swing. 
Then, like the lilies on the Altar's breast. 
We too shall find before His Throne our rest. 



LINES TO E. OF H. M. 

WITH A PICTURE OF THE ARCHANGEL GABRIEL. 

Oh, Bard of our Lady, it seemeth to me 
That Mary's own Angel should watch over thee ; 
The strains of thy harp breathing love's pure emotion 
Responsively thrill me with deepest devotion. 
And though but a dream to me, may I not dare 
To whisper for thee but this low, timid prayer? — 
May Gabriel, first Bard of the dear peerless Queen, 
Watch over the Poet whose soul she has been. 



62 NO MOTHER. 



NO MOTHER! 

No Mother ! Oh, the loneliness ! 

The weight of dumb and aching woe! 
The purest spring of human love 

Forever sealed on earth below. 

No Mother ! Oh, that shrouded eye ! 

That held such loving, tender light; 
Those marble lips ! that ever breathed, 

To me, in tones of sweet delight. 

Those dear hands ! meekly laid at rest. 
Their warm and kindly pressure stilled ; 

That silent, pulseless, heaveless breast ! 
Till now with such affection filled. 

Oh, precious form ! oh, peaceful face ! 

Calm in its long and dreamless sleep ; 
Oh, let me once more bow my head 

And on that gentle bosom weep ! 

And through the vista, long and dim, 
Of vanished years, oh ! let me stray. 

Forgetting all save that dear smile, 
That lights the loneliest, saddest way. 

The smile still lingers, but 'tis mute, — 
Mute as the sweet white flowers there; 

And yet such mocking lines of life 
Rest upon every wave of hair. 



now THE ANGELS HEARD A MASS. 63 

No Mother ? Oh, it cannot be ! 

How can I go and bear my grief? 
Look up, my soul, to Calvary's height, 

There seek for comfort and relief. 



My God ! my God ! if nature seem 
Rebellious, broken-hearted, wrung, 

The spirit's trembling accents are, 
"Father, Thy holy will be done !" 



HOW THE ANGELS HEARD A MASS. 

A LEGEND FOR THE LITTLE ONES. 

Once 1 can remember 

Reading of a Saint 
In an olden legend. 

Charming 'twas and quaint. 
'Twas a holy Bishop, 

Bonnet was his name, 
And his "See" was Clermont, — 

Place of little fame. 



Praying during midnight 
Li the Church so dim. 

Suddenly he started 
There to hear a hymn, 



64 HOW THE ANGELS HEARD A MASS. 

Low, and sweet, and swelling 
Through the arches gray, 

Trembling to the Altar, 
Dying there away. 



III. 

Filled with awe and trembling 

Knelt St. Bonnet there, 
Daring scarce to murmur 

Words of holy prayer ; 
For a long procession, 

Angels robed in white, 
Trailing snowy pinions, 

Floated into sieht. 



IV. 

Then a crowd of martyrs 

Mingled with the rest, 
Blood-red sparkling crosses 

Blazing on each breast ; 
Last of all our Lady 

Glided in their midst. 
With her azure mantle 

Veiled in fleecy mist. 



Six bright boy-like cherubs 
Holy vestments bore, 

And a seventh carried 
Chalice on before. 



HOW THE ANGELS HEARD A MASS. 65 

Pausing at the Altar, 

Circled they around; 
When our Lady entered, 

Bowed they to the ground. 



VI. 

Hushed were all the anthems. 

Not a rustle broke 
On the solemn stillness 

When our Lady spoke ; 
And her voice of silver 

Seemed so marvellous sweet, 
That St. Bonnet longed 

To prostrate at her feet. 



VII. 

" Bring the Sacred Vestments 

Holy Mass to say !" 
And the tapers twinkled 

With a starry ray ; 
And the soft-winged Angels, 

So it came to pass. 
Made the Altar ready 

For the Holy Mass, 



VIII. 

But a whisper floated 

Through the Heavenly band, 
Who of them was worthy ? 

Whose the anointed hands ? 

5 



66 HOW THE ANGELS HEARD A MASS. 

Then our Lady turning 

To St. Bonnet round, 
Saw the holy Bishop 

Weeping on the ground. 



IX. 

Sweetly then she whispered, 

" Son, arise and say. 
For thy Heavenly Visitors, 

Holy Mass to-day." 
But the humble Bishop 

Sank upon the stone, 
Which grew soft and yielding,- 

Left his impress on. 



Trembling still with rapture, 

Still he dared not stand. 
Till our dearest Lady 

Took his aged hand, 
Led him to the Altar, 

Where it came to pass 
Silent Angels robed him 

For the Holv Mass. 



XI. 

Then with foreheads lowly 
Bowed each Heavenly guest. 

As the Bishop signed him 
On the brow and breast. 



HOW THE ANGELS HEARD A MASS. ^y 

" Judica me Deus !" 

Murmured he in tears, 
Angel-whispers answered 

'Mid his rapturous fears. 



XII. 

" Kyrie eleison !" 

Said the Bishop now, 
While a golden glory 

Gathered on his brow. 
Lo ! from silver trumpets 

Rang an Angel-blast, 
" Gloria in Excelsis" 

Sang the choirs at last. 



XIII. 

So 'mid tears and music 

Rapture ! thrilling bliss ! 
Mass was too soon ended. 

Such a Mass as this ! 
Then the holy Bishop 

Bowed unto the hand 
Of disrobing Angels 

At the Queen's command. 



XIV. 

Stole and snowy girdle, 

Maniple of white, 
Chasuble all glittering, 

Vanished from his sight. 



68 ^OW THE ANGELS HEARD A MASS. 

But the Alb still floated 

To the sacred floor, 
Texture, oh, so dazzling! 

Ne'er had been before. 



XV. 

And our Lady whispered, 

"Son, we leave to thee 
Pledge of this our visit, 

Stainless let it be !" 
Then the vision vanished. 

Bonnet was alone, 
Rays of early morning 

Gilt the pile of stone. 



XVI. 

Through the old stained windows 

Came the colored light, 
Early birds seemed singing 

Of that wondrous night. 
And the Alb was floating 

To the sacred floor, 
And the Saint was pondering 

All that went before ; 



XVII. 

Then his bursting spirit 
All its rapture found, 

Weeping with thanksgiving 
Fell he to the ground. 



BOW THE ANGELS HEARD A MASS. 69 

There they found St. Bonnet 

When the dayHght came, 
With the A/d still floating 

Round his ajjed frame. 



XVIII. 

Thus the legend ended, 

How it came to pass, 
Legions flew from Heaven 

To assist at Mass. 
Much I pondered on it, 

And my wonder grew 
At my slothful worship, 

Knowincr all J knew. 



XIX. 

So with hearts adoring 

E'er at Mass assist, 
Let thy soul be humble, 

Wandering thoughts resist. 
And the lovely moral 

Of this Legend quaint 
Will be yours, children. 

From that a^ed Saint. 



70 WHAT ARE THEY DOING AT HOME TO-NIGHT? 



WHAT ARE THEY DOING AT HOME 
TO-NIGHT? 

1874. 

What are they doing at home to-night ? 

I think I can see them, though far away, — 
Can see the large luxurious room, 

And the gas-lights burning bright as day. 

Buried deep in his easy-chair, 

Drawn to the drop-light on the table, 
My father sits with folded hands : 

To hold his paper he seems not able ; 
His eyes are closed, and his thoughts adrift 

Back in the stream of long ago. 
And he vaguely listens to outer sounds 

He does not heed or care to know. 

My brother dear, with his careless air. 

Reclines at ease in a cushioned nook ; 
The shadows fall on his frank white brow, 

And on the leaves of his open book. 
He beats the time of a fav'rite tune 

That comes to his half-unconscious ear, 
Or else he is humming soft and low, 

Lest he should waken the sleeper near. 

At the piano, some paces off. 

Touching idly the yielding keys, 
Breathing her thoughts in snatches of song 

Or fragments of fav'rite melodies, 



LYRIC TO THE SACRED HEART. 

My sister there in the half-light sits, 

With the roses of youth on her rounded cheek ; 
She misses the absent tones in the chord, 

And the music tells what she does not speak. 

Yes, there they are ! while over the snow, 

Miles away in our peaceful home, 
This night when the moonbeams silver the roof 

And the frost-spirits dance as they onward roam, 
Here 'mid the heavenly calm and peace, 

Secluded from worldly toil and fear. 
The missing links of the home-chain are 

So far away, and yet so near. 

And as we kneel, my sister and I, 

Breathing our prayers at the foot of the Throne, 
Then comes the thought, with a blessing for all, 

" What are they doing to-night at home?" 



71 



LYRIC TO THE SACRED HEART. 

Heart of my Saviour, with tenderness glowing, 
Ever upon me such treasures bestowing. 
Kneeling before Thee, each hot, restless yearning 
Breaks like the sea-wave to ocean returning. 

Heart of our Father, deep voices ascending 
Claim the sweet pity that o'er us is bending, 
Wander our footsteps in ignorant blindness, 
Brine back Thine own with a Father's dear kindness. 



72 MV GRANDMOTHER'S SPINNING WHEEL. 

Heart of our Brother, could love's name be dearer? 
Mary's own children! we dare to draw nearer, 
Press we still closer to Jesus our Brother, 
Claiming His Heart through the Heart of our Mother. 

Heart of our God, with the Saints we implore Thee, 
Heart of our Jesus, with angels adore Thee, 
Heart the most gracious, most loving, most holy. 
Make our poor hearts like to Thine, meek and lowly. 



MY GRANDMOTHER'S SPINNING- 
WHEEL. 

Oh, worn and homely relic of a past and faded time. 
Thy ancient grace has vanished, thou art touched with 

silver rime, 
The music of thy busy round seems now unmeaning, cold, 
My Grandmother's Spinning- Wheel, — eighty years old. 

The children come and touch thy edge, and turn thee as 

they smile 
In curious noisy wonder thus, their playtime to beguile; 
Perhaps they use thee roughly, too, for childhood oft is 

bold. 
My Grandmother's Spinning-Wheel, — eighty years old. 

And then they gather at my knee th}^ story to repeat. 
How, years long gone, this hollowed board was pressed by 
busy feet. 



AfV GRANDMOTHER'S SPINNING-WHEEL. 73 

And she who drew the silky flax was graciousiiess untold; 
For neither wheel nor spinner then gave thought to grow- 
ing old. 

The homestead ! how it rises now ! a picture ever new, 
As memory draws the veil of years and brings it into view, 
And one by one the many graves give back the broken 

fold 
That gathered round the spinning-wheel in happy days of 

old. 

A mother's kind and gentle face, a father's honored form. 

Brothers and sisters ! scattered now like leaves in autumn's 
storm ; 

What mirth then reigned the daylight through ! and sun- 
set's rosy gold 

Fell brightly on that spinning-wheel, — now eighty years 
old. 

Oh, hearts of ours ! forever young though head be bowed 

and gray. 
Forever moved from tears to smiles, from serious to gay, 
Give thanks to God, for earthly woes, though countless and 

untold, 
Are but the paths to yonder skies, where nothing groweth 

old. 

And so, time-honored relic, thou spinnest still a thread, 
A lesson pure and living, though thou tellest of the dead ; 
No wonder that I cherish thee, and prize thee more than 

gold, 
]\Iy Grandmother's Spinning-Wheel, — eighty years old. 



74 TRIBUTE TO A FRIEND. 

TRIBUTE TO A FRIEND. 

ON THE TENTH ANNIVERSARY OF ORDINATION. 

Ten mile-stones ! anointed with chrism divine, 

Ten years daily bathed in the Altar's sweet wine, 

Ten pearls of great price interlinking with gold, 

The Lily of Priesthood, as fair as of old, 

To-day a new bud on the " rod" of thy years 

With the decade that blossomed 'mid labors and fears. 

" Alter Christus !" the mountain-top yet must be won. 

Thy day has not come to the set of its sun ; 

Toil on, ere thine Olivet rise through the mist. 

And the King opes the portals of starred amethyst. 

It may not be far to thy crown and thy palm, 

To the haven of rest, to the peace sweet and calm. 

Oh ! then in the hour that calls thee away, 

May thy crown and thy joy be the thought of this day. 

May 24, 1882. 



FADED FLOWERS AFTER BENEDIC- 
TION. 

Flowers, faded flowers, drooped is each beauteous head ; 
Ye could not bear the dazzling light, the holy awful dread, 
The organ's swell, the incense wreaths, the waxen tapers 

round ; 
Ye could not bear His Presence, flowers, ye bowed unto 

the ground. 



A DREAM. 



75 



Flowers, withered flowers, what did your pure hearts say, 
As lovingly and gently at the 'Monstrance foot you lay ? 
Did you not thrill with strange delight, with wonder and 

with fear, 
To think that little flowers like you should be to God so 

near? 

Ye did not mind the solemn chant, the little silver bell, 
The rustling of the Angels' wings as down to earth they 

fell; 
Ye only felt your tiny lives depart in fragrance sweet, 
When the blessing fell upon you as you lay at Jesus' Feet. 

And so, my zvithcrcd flowers, ye are precious in my sight : 
Ye died for Him who made ye all so lovely and so bright. 
Ah ! would that I, His feeble child, might spend time's 

golden hours 
In sending forth sweet fragrant deeds, like ye, dear Faded 

Flowers. 



A DREAM. 

A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE TO MY FATHER. 

The snow is on the roofs and spires, the moon is shining 

down. 
And gemming with a frosty light this black and grimy 

town ; 
The stars float out, and softly hang, below the violet skies, 
And gaze upon the swinging earth like tender angel-eyes. 



76 



A DREAM. 



I lean upon the window-sill and look into the night; 

The city-sounds are hushed to sleep and nothing comes in 

sight, 
Only the city-lamps in rows grow fainter down the street, 
As distance links the trembling sparks, until at last they 

meet. 

I think ! — and Thought a whisper brings, a mem'ry sweet 

and dear, 
" To-morrow morn will bring for hijii another golden 

year!" 
For him, my precious Father, a birthday comes again, 
A golden Jubilee increased with half the decade — ten. 

Perhaps I sleep ! and do I dream ? what is it that I see 
Out in the sparkling winter sky ? behold ! what comes to 

me ! 
A radiant angel clothed in white, — a youth of perfect 

mould, — 
Fresh opening manhood, noble brow, and face of light 

untold. 

His garment trailed the purple sky, the starlight glim- 
mered through. 

His broad white wings upheld him as he slowly swept in 
view ; 

And then I saw his glorious face, so beautiful and bright. 

It seemed to throw fresh lustre on the radiant winter night. 

No poet e'er could dream a dream so full — so full of bliss; 
No painter e'er could call to light a face — a face like this; 
No bard could sing of beauty so rapturous a strain, 
As e'er to bring that angel's form before my soul again. 



A DREAM. 



77 



He slowly paused before me, and like a silver chime 

The music of his lips broke forth like poet's flowing 

rhyme ; 
" I am your father's Guardian !" he said, and smiled again, 
And, lifting up his slender hands, I saw he held a chain. 

A zuondroiis chain ! with many a link ! and many a various 

light, 
That lay upon it through the gleam of the clear and starry 

night; 
How long it seemed ! and swiftly as I marked it o'er and 

o'er 
I counted carefully the links, — they numbered fifty-four. 

And then I saw the vision meant my father's years of life, 

And every link was tinctured with its share of earthly 
strife ; 

His infant years, his boyhood's days, his manhood's splen- 
did prime. 

And further on these latter years, until this birthday's 
chime. 

The chain began with slender threads of purest silver 

bright. 
Untarnished by a cloudy ray, or shadowed by a blight ; 
Anon, the links with swelling clasp from silver change to 

gold, 
But seemed it that the lustrous light, though brighter, still 

was cold. 

The golden clasps were changing now, some dim with rust 

or stain. 
Though now and then a single link shone purely bright 

again ; 



78 A DREAM. 

A score or more seemed dim and dull, — some lost their 

golden hue, — 
But still the angel held them all before my wondering 

view. 

Then once again the links emerged, in pure and lustrous 

gleam, 
And as they neared the closing link, still brighter was their 

sheen ; 
And as the angel held to' me the fifty-fourth, the last, 
It seemed so radiant and so bright, it glorified the past. 

The angel said, with winning smile, " 'Twill be so to the 
end ; 

Each year linked on will glow with deeds that Heaven- 
ward will tend ; 

Your father's years in peace will glide, — life's solemn labor 
done, 

His closing hours with good works filled, will be like set- 
ting sun, — 

" Like setting sun that fills the earth with floods of golden 

light. 
And thrills us with its grandeur as it disappears from sight: 
So shall the just, in gentle peace, thus sweetly fade away, 
And leave calm, starry twilight brooding o'er the sleeping 

clay." 

I started, — when the sweet voice ceased, — 'I opened wide 

my eyes ; 
Naught could I see around me but the quiet starlit skies; 
No angel stood before me, but as I gazed to Heaven, 
And tried to believe it was a dream, the house-clock struck 

eleven. 

March I, 1S74. 



CORPUS CHRIST/. 79 



CORPUS CHRISTI. 

A REPLY. 

Who drives them hence ? The Hhes' drifted snow ! 

Meet footstool for the pure white Host to-day ! 
No fragrance need we where all perfumes flow, 

No royal rose to make a thorny way, 
But stately heads all bowed like angels white. 
To hail their passing Saviour's gentle might. 
Oh, purest King, we hear Thy tender tones ; 

Thou, Spouse, who feedeth 'mong the lilies fair. 
Make white as lilies hearts whose tearful moans 

Would fain wash off the stains of sin, and dare 
To press in loving boldness to Thy Feet, 
All thrilled, to feast at Love's own Banquet sweet. 
Bring purest lilies ! not the passion-glow 

Of rich red roses ; on a feast like this 
They tell of blood, or else voluptuous flow 

With worldly memories of a worldly bliss ; 
Pure, passionless, and deep as Love's own chalice. 
Let lilies come to grace His earthly palace. 
Who drives them hence? the lilies are His own ; 
They even bloom in Heaven around His Throne. 



8o THE OLD HOME OF HAPPY SCHOOL-DAYS, 



THE OLD HOME OF HAPPY SCHOOL- 
DAYS. 

Though the mist of years has gathered round, Old Home, 

I see thee still. 
With thy wealth of rich, rare beauty on each sunny vale 

and hill ; 
Thy soft, blue sky, thy fleecy clouds, thy sunset and thy 

dawn. 
Thy deep, cool groves, thy glowing flow'rs, thy birds at 

eve and morn. 

Oft as a child I loved to sit, when study's toil was o'er. 
Alone in dreaming pensive mood beside the " back porch 

door ;" 
rd watch the oak-crowned hills beyond blend with the 

azure mist. 
And nurse the fancies, strange and wild, my soul could not 

resist. 

It was my favorite spot, that porch, though many passed 
along. 

Yes, scarce a moment was it free from footstep, laugh, or 
song; 

Yet oft when merry crowds were there, my heart and eyes 
were still 

Fixed on the blue mist creeping up that grand old oak- 
crowned hill. 



THE OLD HOME OF HAPPY SCHOOL-DAYS. 8 1 

I see it yet before me now beyond that sloping green, 
Where the thick hedge traced the carriage road, till curving, 

'twas unseen 
Beyond the brook that faintly seemed a strand of silver 

thread. 
Worked in the purple velvet of the fragrant violet's bed. 

There was another favorite spot, it was the haunt of prayer, 
And oh, my soul ! how many times we've knelt in silence 

there ! 
Dear Chapel, with its silver lamp, the Sanctuary's bound. 
And shadowed arches, 'neath which hung the Via Crucis 

round. 

I loved to watch the gentle nuns, as noiselessly and slow. 
With downcast eyes and sweeping trains, to choir they'd 

come and go. 
Their faces, oh, so radiant ! with God's seal of holy peace, 
I'd press my hands upon my heart to make its flutt'ring 

cease. 

But all these hallowed haunts are gone ; there came a raging 

fire 
Which rose relentless o'er our home, e'en to its very spire, 
And soon its lonely ashes lay deserted on the spot. 
And save by those who loved it old St. Xavie/s is forgot. 

Time passed, and o'er those ashes, stately and grand and 

proud, 
A noble pile upreared its head, e'en to the very cloud. 
But give me back those ruins sad, the old Home ever will 
Be my home of happy memory, my Alma Mater still. 



82 FRITZ. 



FRITZ. 

With ruffled plumes and half-closed eye 
My Fritz, poor birdie ! here doth lie ! 
Cold and dead on my outstretched palm ; 
While I strive to think, I am very calm, 
That only a bird has died to-day, 
And a score or more may come my way. 

But Fritz, 'tis vain, and a foolish tear 
Drops on the hand that forms thy bier, 
Drops on the delicate feet so slender, 
Drops on the little form so tender ; 
And the yellow feathers, beautiful yet, 
Are moist with my tribute of regret. 

I dare not look at the empty cage ; 

I'd miss the bright eye, arch, yet sage. 

The toss of the little tufted head. 

The fluttering wings, pretence of dread, 

And I'd miss the swell of the little throat 

Whence came each thrilling exquisite note. 

At early morn, who welcomed me, 

Beating his golden wires with glee ? 

Who perched like a sunbeam on the tips 

Of my fingers, and pecked at my scolding lips ? 

Who trilled, and warbled, and chirped, until 

I would hush him, and call out, " Fritz, be still"? 



FRITZ. 3^ 

Who pouted and swelled out his feathers all 
When I did not notice his pleading call? 
Who sang out his heart, and trembling came 
When I coaxed and whispered his pretty name ? 
Fritz, my birdie, my pet, 'twas thou ! 
And cold and lifeless thou'rt lying now. 

Ah, Fritz, I loved thee ! the human heart 

May even give of itself a part 

To a little bird, to a fragment of song. 

To a mem'ry calling it sweet and strong ; 

We are clinging creatures, and may be stirred 

To weep for a little singing-bird. 

But, Fritz, there's a Lesson sweet though stern 

In thy stiffened form, I fain must learn 

Our loves of earth are only clay. 

And like thee, birdie, pass away, 

While the tired heart sinks back on the Breast 

Of Him who alone can give it rest. 

So, Fritz, with, a tear but with wisdom found, 

I'll lay thee under the snowy ground, 

I'll watch for the violet-laden spring, 

I'll watch thy brother, the wild bird, fling 

Showers of music over thy rest. 

But the Lesson I'll carry within my breast. 



84 



GRA CIE. 



G R A C I E. 

April 17, 1879. 

Tenderly kiss the baby-face, 
The waxen forehead of little Grace; 
Smooth the soft curls of silken hair, 
No trace of the Angel lingers there. 
Fair little bud ! in thy dreamless sleep 
Rest thee the while we gaze and weep. 

Yes ! for the innocent laughing eyes, 
Brimful of baby-love or surprise, 
Weep for the sweet lips that outpour 
Their prattling music nevermore ! 
The dimpled fingers, folded yet, 
Like snow-drops on the baby-breast. 

Gracie, our baby, it must be 

The Angels, darling, have stolen thee. 

Far round the Throne of Heaven's King 

Babes like thee, with snow-white wing 

And silvery voices, breathe a song 

That rings o'er the anthems sweet and strong. 

And under the clover and tender grass, 
Where the robins sing and the sunbeams pass. 
Where the violets nod and the soft winds sigh. 
We have laid thee, darling, peacefully. 
And at eve we will think that thy starry eyes 
Are looking on us from the quiet ?kies. 



THE SOUL- CRY ON NEW YEAR'S EVE. 85 



THE SOUL-CRY ON NEW YEAR'S EVE. 

Lord ! ere the midnight chime, 

And the Old Year fade, 
Look at the gift I bring ; 

Here is it laid ! 
Silence is all around, 

Earth, air, and sky, 
Starful and bright the night 

As time floats by. 

Over the haunts of men 

The Dying Year 
Moans out its parting breath. 

Drops its last tear. 
Yes ! here I come to Thee, 

Lord of my heart. 
Bringing this year's harvest. 

My humble part. 

Only some little sheaves; 

Thine own, my Lord, 
Sowed, watered, watched by Thee, 

Saviour adored. 
Here in this narrow heart 

They've crept to life. 
Poor, weak, and fragile growth, 

'Mid passions' strife. 



86 THE SOUL- CRY ON NEW YEARS EVE. 

Weeds rank, and bold, and high, 

They, too, are there ; 
And wert Thou not so sweet 

I would despair, 
I would lay down my sheaves, 

Flee far away. 
And let my offering 

Wither away. 



But Thou dost love me so, — 

Nearer I creep, 
Dropping the poor burden 

While here I weep. 
What dost Thou find in me, 

Beautiful One, 
To thrill my heart so oft, 

As Thou hast done ? 



What can I be to Thee, 

Royal, Divine ? ' 

King! dost Thou stoop so low, 

Call my soul Thine ? 
Ah ! dost Thou sue for me, 

Woo this poor heart, 
Take it to rest with Thine 

Ne'er to depart ? 



Oh, could I die for Thee ! 

What e'en were this ? 
What does my life, my death, 

Matter, Thy bliss ? 



THE SOUL-CRY ON NEW YEAR'S EVE. 8/ 

Useless, and poor, and weak, 

Humbly I lie; 
Take up my littleness, 

Pass me not by. 

Take my poor wretchedness 

Into Thy Heart, 
Then let it tremble, Lord, 

And ne'er depart ; 
There let it rest and love 

As the stars shine, 
And the Old Year depart 

At midnight chime. 

Fuse it into Thy love, — 

Iron in fire, — 
There let it melt and burn, 

Sweetly expire. 
Oh ! could the sounds of earth 

Fade, fade away. 
And my New Year burst forth 

Into Heaven's day ! 

Yet, Lord, Thy Will be done, * 

Give back the Cross, 
I will live on for Thee, 

Bearing my loss. 
For Thou will grant to me, 

When my days close. 
To find at last in Thee 

Blissful repose. 



88 THE MYSTIC LILY. 

THE MYSTIC LILY. 

AN ALLEGORY. 

Oh ! noble imperial Lily, 
With thy pure uplifted brow, 

Thy chalice is brimming with light; 
Pour it out on my thirst, oh, Lily, 
Pour it out on my darkness to-night. 

In thy shadow behold me, Lily, 
My head on thy strong tall stem, 

Upreaching my twining leaflets ; 

Only a wild-flower, Lily, 

Which the weeping night-dews gem. 

'Tis safe to be near thee, Lily, 
So safe, and precious, and sure. 

In thy broad and strong protection. 
Whether sad, or joyful, Lily, 
I nestle, and rest secure. 

Teach me to look to Heaven 
With thy constant steadfast gaze ; 
Teach me to stand and grow alone, 
Faithful and firm like thee, Lily, 
Till I bloom where the stars are strown. 



AFTER BENEDICTION. 89 



AFTER BENEDICTION. 

In the hush of the fragrant Chapel 

I kneel and linger to pray ; 
The tapers are out, the organ is stilled, 

The worshippers glided away ; 
Alone, and heavy-hearted, 

I kneel, as I linger behind, 
Sure that His Blessing will comfort me 

And soothe my troubled mind. 

Like the compass-needle I flutter, 

Diverging from Him who is Rest ; 
Oh ! why do I fly from His mercy, 

From quiet repose on His Breast? 
In the dark I am groping and wand'ring. 

To every weak reed do I cling ; 
Dear Lord ! can He bear in His Presence 

Such a wretched ungrateful thing ? 

" His left Hand is under my head," 

I can see the reproach in His Face, 
On His wounded Shoulder I bow. 

Enfolded in His embrace. 
My Saviour, my King ! my all ! 

My tears are outpouring my grief; 
Oh ! where can man's heart e'er find 

Such sweet and such tender relief? 

I weep, and my heart grows calm ; 

The darkness settles around ; 
Only the step of the Sacristan 

Treads on the hallowed ground. 



90 



A PYX- CASE. 

The lights are gone, and only His star 

Sheds its soft radiance above, 
But, soothed and strengthened, I go my way 

God's peace has descended in love. 



A PYX-CASE. 

A LITTLE Case, of costly silk and rare ; 

Without, 'tis traced with painted blossoms fair. 

In hues of crimson, purple, green, and gold. 

With silken cords of white in every fold ; 

Within, like sheet of silver richly wrought. 

Is snowy satin, with the needle caught 

In slender vines of silken thread ; above, 

The " Sacred Heart" drops down Its wounded love 

In liquid rubies. Here a little Pyx 

Will sweetly lie ; here burning love will fix 

A tiny home, so small that it may rest 

Unnoticed on His minister's pure breast. 

Oh, wonder ! that a creature should be found 

To bear his Maker through the earth around ! 

To blend his pulses with the throbs that dart, 

Like messages, from Jesus' Sacred Heart ! 

To glide along the busy thoroughfare 

'Mong men that know not, care not, God is there ! 

At midnight, when earth's weary sleepers lie 
Beneath the silence of the starry sky, ' 

All, all, is breathless save the muffled beat 
Of reverent footsteps, echoing down the street. 



A PYX- CASE. gi 

There Angels, veiled in softened mellowed light, 
Guard him who journeys through the gloomy night, 
And as they flit his priestly form above, 
Their adoration melts to trembling love; 
Some wretched soul to-night will be forgiven. 
Some wandering sheep will be prepared for Heaven. 

When light is flashing up from eastern sky, 

And morn hangs out a rosy canopy; 

When birds wake up, and sweet glad music floats 

In thrilling wildness from their little throats ; 

When flowers open wide their fragrant breasts 

And deck with glitt'ring pearls their mossy vests. 

All heedless of the glories of the day, 

That rev'rent footsteps noiseless tread the way. 

Dear little Case of silk ! thou'lt ever be 
A home for Him from sin's defilement free; 
Upon the snowy whiteness of thy breast, 
So safe, and calm, the Sacred Host will rest, 
" Prisoner of Love," a blessing to impart, 
Until He lies upon some human heart. 

And now I'll lay thee, little Case, aside 

With me until the morrow to abide, 

And then, rejoicing to thy mission gone. 

My heart will bear thee, though my task be done ; 

And when I weary of the sunless hours 

That hang so often over Juunaii flozvers, 

Oh, let me think of that veiled holy Face 

That's sweetly borne within thee, little Case! 



92 



ONE YEAR ORDAINED. 



ONE YEAR ORDAINED. 

Only a year ! Look back and see, 

As it vanishes into Eternity ; 

Oh ! gaze on the marvellous treasure won, 

The glorious work thy hands have done. 

Those hands still fragrant with holy chrism 
Have snatched, how many, from Hell's abysm ? 
Those lips, still red with the Precious Blood, 
Have rescued, how many, from sin's dark .flood? 

One single soul ! and what is its worth ? 
'Tis greater than all the glory of earth ! 
One single soul ! ah ! saints have died 
To bring one soul to the Crucified. 

And how many souls are thine — are thine ! 

At the Throne where the throbbing seraphs shine, 

And Angels in wonder and envy see 

The glorious mission God gave to thee. 

And yet, it is only a single year. 
The Future is dim with shadow and fear; 
The way is long, and the storm may come 
Ere the voice of the Master calls thee home. 

And are there not times when the human heart 
Is tempted to wish for an easier part ? 
And tires it not of the wearying strife 
That lies at the bottom of human life ? 



CROWNED BY THE WORLD. 

But tlie longest day has its golden west, 
The sharpest pain its contented rest, 
The wildest fear hath its calm repose, 
The hardest work its reward, its close. 

So if the long years should multiply, 
Should furrow thy brow and dim thine eye. 
Almighty grace will ever be 
Sustaining, guiding, blessing thee. 

And remember, within the holy peace 
Of these sacred walls there will never cease 
A pleading voice in a fervent prayer : 
" Grant to him. Lord, Thy tender care. 

" Give priestly virtues, a heart on fire, 

A zeal for souls that will never tire ; 

Oh, grant, when he lays Thine armor down, 

'Twill be to receive the victor's crown." 



93 



CROWNED BY THE WORLD. 

A MAY-DAY OFFERING TO MARY, QUEEN OF HEAVEN. 

After the May-day Procession comes a group of Young Girls, 
clothed in white, bearing appropriate emblems ; they stand 
around the Altar of Mary tvhile a hymn is sung. 

North America [bears stars and stripes). 

I am North America ! 
Two silver oceans wash the strand 
Of Mary Immaculate's favored land ; 



94 



CROWNED BY THE WORLD. 

" Conceived without sin," our Lady and Queen, 
Crescent most lovely, star most serene, 
Fairest of God's fair creatures art thou, 
North America places a crown on thy brow. 

South America. 

I am South America ! 
My groves, sweet Mother, are teeming for thee 
With creatures wondrously fair to see, 
And the azure light of my dreamy skies, 
Pictures, Madonna, thy sweet tender eyes. 
My Lily of Quito and Lima's fair Rose 
Circle the throne where thy loveliness glows ; 
South America hastens her homage to pay 
To Mary the Beautiful, Queen of the May. 

England. 

I am England ! 
"Our Lady's Dowry!" can I claim 
A nobler, better, richer name ? 
Once was my land an Isle of Saints ! 
And in the future fancy paints 
An Angelus chiming East and West, 
And wayside shrines to Mary blest, 
And May processions winding by 
Singing our Lady's Litany. 

Dear Mother, bless England with words so sweet 
That the wanderer needs must return to thy feet. 

Ireland {zvitli a croivii of thorns). 

I am Ireland ! 
Crowned with thorns, oh. Mother divine ! 
I lay my heart-sorrows upon thy shrine ; 



CROWNED BY THE WORLD. 95 

Suffering, hopeful, patient, weary, 

Thou art my star while the night's so dreary'. 

My daughters and sons, loving words sing to thee, 

Queen of the Emerald Isle of the sea. 

And so to thy shrine do I joyfully bring 

A heart crowned with thorns for an offeringf. 



Africa. 

I am Africa ! 
Where my water-lilies float 
On their broad and leafy boat. 
Where the silver Nile is rippling, rippling past the verdant 
shore, 
Or where desert sands sweep by 
'Neath a hot and parching sky, 
They have legends of a vision, told a hundred years before ; 
'Twas a Sire old and gray 
Hastening past that desert way 
With a beauteous Maiden-Mother, who yet bore a daz- 
zling child, 
And their idols dared not stand 
While those strangers dwelt the land. 
Though they uttered only greetings worshipful and sweet 
and mild. 
Perhaps the Flight was hid 
By a mighty Pyramid ; 
Perhaps the frowning Sphinx gave shelter to thee. Mother 
sweet ; 
Perhaps my swarthy race 
Drank the beauty of thy Face, 
And so Africa brings tribute on this May-day to thy feet. 



gS CROWNED BY THE WORLD. 

Asia. 
I am Asia ! 
Golden skies and flowing streams, 
Holiest mem'ries, sweetest dreams, 
Come with me to thee, dear Queen, 
As I enter on the scene ; 
Bethlehem and Galilee, 
Nazareth and Calvary, 
Ephesus, wherein thy Name 
Thousands thundered with acclaim, 
And the heretic Nestorius 
Silenced, slunk away inglorious ! 
God's own Mother, thou art ours ; 
Asia brings thee crowns of flowers, 
Gems and gold and perfumes sweet, 
Tribute of a love most meet. 

The croivii is borne on a cusJiion by ci maiden, zvho has a 
companion on each side as maids of honor. 

First Maid of Honor. 

Then gather round our Queen so sweetly fair, 
And bring these fragrant treasures rich and rare, 
And lay the loyal love of each young heart 
Here at her shrine, that Mary may impart 
The tender blessing of her gracious Son 
All through our lives, 'till Heaven's gate be won. 
Madonna ! take our love with each sweet spray. 
Queen of our hearts and Lady of the May. 

Second Maid. 

Dark are the shadows on our path ! We pray. 
Star of our lives, oh ! Mary, lead the way. 



THE EPIPHANY-STAR. 97 

And when temptation comes with awful pow'r, 
Mother of God ! protect us in that hour. 
Let this sweet May-day's memory ever bless 
Thy children with a heavenly tenderness ! 
Hail to thee, Mother ! take our hearts to-day, 
Queen of our souls and Lady of the May ! 



Crown-Bearer. 

Choice Flower of God, to thee we bring 
The love of children and the buds of Spring, 
And as our voices rise in anthems strong, 
Let Angel-harps through Heaven waft the song 
That Mary, sweetest Mother ! crowned to-day, 
May crown her children in the Eternal May. 

TJie Statue is croivncd and a hjnin is s?(7ig. 



THE EPIPHANY -STAR. 

" My children, your Star is Jesus dying on the Cross. 

A SOLEMN Epiphany greeting, drifting from Christmas wide, 
'Tis more like the mournful echo of the purple Passion- 
tide. 

Solemn, — when hearts are brimming with the pomp of 

Eastern Kings 
In the gorgeous Bible-picture, that tells such wondrous 

thines. 



98 



THE EPIPHANY-STAR. 



For we see the weary camels, the swarthy turbaned slaves, 
The gold, the myrrh, the incense, brought from their 
treasure-caves. 

We see the brows majestic those studious Sages wore, 
Their stately royal presence at the lowly stable-door. 

We see them kneel at the manger, and gaze on the heav'nly 

grace 
That beams from the Sacred Infant, and rests on His 

mother's face. 

The air is throbbing with glory, the angels floating above 
Singing the thrilling mystery of God's astounding love. 

We seem to catch the echo, we seem to see them fall. 
Those royal Eastern Sages, as they offer Him their all. 

Prostrate they bow before Him, God, in that Infant-frame! 
Oh, majesty overshadowed ! oh, love without a name ! 

And silence deep as midnight falls on the soul's unrest. 
And we clasp our hands devoutly upon our throbbing 
breast. 

Joining the Sages' fervor, our hearts with praise rejoice. 
Till we hear in the solemn stillness the echo of a voice. 

And the echo flashes before us, the scene of Passion-tide ; 
In the distance our eyes behold Him, that Infant, crucified. 

Gone is His childish beauty, the radiant tender Brow 
Is printed deep with the blood-prints of the " Man of 
Sorrows" now. 

Star of the Eastern Sages ! melting in light away, 
Your mission is not over, lead us further we pray. 



IN MEMORIAM. gg 

Lead us on to that mountain where the Jewish multitudes 

toss, 
Lead us on till we see Him — nailed to the bloody Cross. 

Yes ! in the crimson twilight, led from Bethlehem far, 
E'en 'mid the Christmas gladness, gaze on Redemption's 
Star. 

Ponder the words just spoken, all other joy is loss ; 
Christians, " your Star is Jesus dying upon the Cross." 



IN MEMORIAM. 

Augustus. Died at College. Aged 17. 

DEDICATED TO HIS BEREAVED MOTHER. 

" Be not sorrowful even as others who have no hope." — i Thess. iv. 12. 

Silent and cold thy darling lies, 

His bright eyes closed in a dreamless rest, 

His brow so white, 'neath its waves of hair. 
His hands so still on his lifeless breast. 

Gone ! and so soon ! in his beautiful youth, 
When life was so fair and its pulses so strong ; 

Gone, in his promise of goodness and truth, 

When hope and the future seemed sunny and long. 

Oh, Soother of Sorrows, his mother console ! 

The Angels have called him, they've taken her boy ; 
In vain she entreats for one look, for one smile, — 

They have left but the casket, that once held her joy. 



lOO QUARTER TO SEVEN. 

Is this, then, the welcome he looked for at home : 
A sister and brother bowed down by his bier? 

And the grief-shadowed homestead, how changed is it now. 
How lonely the scenes once familiar and dear! 

But look up, breaking heart, to thy true Home above. 

With Faith for thy light ; see God's Saints at His Throne ; 
There, in bright, spotless robes, and with glory-lit face. 

With his crown on his brow, see thy darling, thy own. 

And gathered to greet him are those gone before, 
A father and brothers to God long since given ; 

One half the dear circle still battling on earth, 
One half interceding and watching in Heaven. 

Then grieve not, lone mother, as those without hope ; 

The path thou art treading thy Saviour hath trod ; 
This blow that He deals thee in Mercy is given. 

To draw thy soul nearer thy darling — and God. 



QUARTER TO SEVEN. 

A MEMORY. 

" Quarter to Seven" chimes the bell. 

The Abbey-bell, through the waving trees; 
The shadowy twilight knoweth the swell 

And catcheth the throbbing on the breeze, 
The murmuring insects in the grass 
Deepen their murmur to hear it pass. 



QUARTER TO SEVEN. loi 

" Quarter to seven !" In her nest 

The wild-bird foldeth her weary wing, 

The flower sleeps where it loveth best, 
The fire-fly glitters, a weird, bright thing, 

And stars float out in the pearl-gray heaven, 

As the chimes ring out the " Quarter to Seven." 

Yonder the silent mountains, — at rest, — 
Vast and sublime in their outlines dim. 
Girding the smiling valley's breast, 

Lifting up Nature's majestic hymn, 
The Vespers of Earth to the list'ning Heaven, 
As the chimes fling out the " Quarter to Seven." 
******* 

Silence falls on the sweet cool air. 

The echoes die in the Abbey tower, 
When lo ! there chimes in the wakened soul 

An Angel's message, — 'tis Memory's hour, — 
" Parted souls ! 'tis the time to meet ; 

Leave ye the quiet, leave ye the din ; 
Haste ye, oh, hasten to His Feet, 

The Master remembers and waits within." 

Then shadows curtain the Trysting-Place 

Where soul meets soul in the clasp of prayer, 

And the Star beams out from its silver vase 

On the treasures of strength and comfort There, 

And life grows calm with the peace of Heaven 

When the chimes ring out the " Quarter to Seven." 



I02 THE SISTERS' CEMETERY. 

THE SISTERS' CEMETERY. 

A LEGEND. 
PRELUDE. 

The summer day was waning, and the breeze 
Was playing with the woodbine's fragrant stems, 
As sunset hung a gorgeous drapery out. 
A little group, — we wandered down the path, 
That led o'er stile and rustic bridge, until, 
The valley gained, we passed within the gate, 
Where, hedged by rich and clust'ring walls of green, 
There lay the Sisters' quiet, humble graves. 

Long rows of little grassy mounds were they. 
At each an iron cross, severe and plain, — 
Snow-white, with but the Convent name, — and date 
Whereon the faithful heart had ceased to beat. 
Upon the centre mound, where four paths met, 
Arose a marble cross, with lofty arms. 
No chisel mark it bore, no epitaph, 
But in its untouched purity it stood. 

Suggesting legends of the misty past, 
That clung to it, as did the ivy leaves 
That crept around the solid granite base. 
There was an old oak at the farther end. 
Where robins sang their requiems all day. 
And there we rested with the gentle Nun 
Who kindly brought us hither. There 
We gazed upon the marble cross, all charmed 



THE SISTERS' CEMETERY. 



103 



And breathless, as the Legend was unrolled, 
The Legend of that hallowed quiet spot. 

All nature seemed to listen ; but the breeze 

Kept sighing, sighing, in the swaying oak. 

And made the pauses of the quiet voice 

Fill up with music, like a minor strain 

From some Cathedral organ. The gentle calm 

Of evening touched the landscape 'round 

With sweet and solemn peace. 

As in the Cemetery of the Nuns we sat 

That summer eve, and listened to the Legend. 

THE LEGEND. 

" It seems," the Sister said, " in years gone by. 

Two centuries and more, — so long ago, — 

The Lidian reared his wigwam 'neath these trees, 

And fashioned here his tomahawk or bow, 

And little Indian children played about 

In native glee with many a whoop and shout. 

" And here the dusky squaws, in deep retreat, 
Prepared the deer their lords brought from the chase, 
And stern and silent moved with noiseless feet. 
Repulsive guardians of the savage place ; 
While noble trees spread out the leafy bough, 
Ancestors of the trees that shade us now. 

" The tribe was fierce ; no god did they adore. 

No festival e'er met to celebrate ; 

They knew one Spirit, — 'twas the breath of War. 

And wild as tigers, merciless as fate, 

They dipped their stony tomahawks in gore. 

And hung their bloody scalps before the door. 



104 ^^^ S/ST£J?S' CEMETERY. 

" Their Sachem lived apart, a haughty chief, 
With eyes of fire, and brow unbending, stern, 
And build like Hercules, a tower of strength, 
And stately carriage, lion-like and firm ; 
And while the other lodges clustered round. 
His stood alone upon yon rising ground. 

" All feared the silent chief, and at his nod 
The warriors gathered round to know his will ; 
One eagle glance, one sharp and meaning word, 
Each knew the part that each was to fulfil. 
In war, or chase, or by the council-fire, 
Smoking the calumet, they feared his ire. 

" I said the Sachem lived alone ; not so. 

One sunbeam lit the darkness of his way : 

His only daughter, lovely, full of grace. 

Ministered to the chieftain night and day. 

In years before her mother went to rest, 

With leaves and wild flowers strewn upon her breast. 

" Only a decade of her life had gone 

And left its childish beauty on her face : 

Slight, and erect as arrow, was her form ; 

Her black hair swept her shoulders, full of grace ; 

The Indian red-tint dwelt not on her cheek. 

But beauty rare was hers, a marvellous freak. 

" Ohwa loved not the other Indian maids; 
Alone, in lonely paths, her footsteps strayed, 
Rousing the foxes from their place of rest. 
Starting the robin from his hidden nest. 
Clapping her little hands to see the deer 
Speeding like lightning as her steps drew near. 



THE SISTERS' CEMETERY. 105 

" And often as the sunset hour grew nigh, 
Upon a hill that faced the western sky, 
She loved to watch the golden sun depart 
Amid a glory that would flood her heart, 
And many a warrior coming from the chase 
Would stop to watch the vision at that place. 

" Full in the flooding sunshine there she'd stand, 

Her earnest face half shaded by her hand ; 

A soft and silky deer-skin fringed with down 

Reached to her knees, and scarlet feathers wound 

Into the jetty tresses of her hair, 

That lay upon her shoulders waving there. 

" Her little feet the softest skins enfold. 
The richest moccasins, — the hue of gold, — 
And o'er her breast a cord as white as snow 
Held 'neath her arm her quiver and her bow, 
And at her feet there lay a tiger's hide, 
The regal mantle of a Sachem's bride. 

"All bathed in liquid gold the maiden stood, 

And watched the sun go slowly down, — unmoved ; 

And when at last the glory died away. 

She stretched her hands out, praying it to stay. 

' Go not away, great golden ball !' she'd cry. 

' Wlio made thee, and -tvlio leads thee through the sky?* 

" And no one told her, though she asked them all, 
' Who is the owner of the great gold ball ? 
Who made the grand old trees around us here ? 
Who made the birds that sing so sweetly near ? 
Who made the silver waves of yonder river. 
That dances on with ripple and with quiver ?' 



I06 "i^HE SISTERS' CEMETERY. 

" And still she asked, but never answer knew, 

And still she pined, as strong her wishes grew ; 

And oft she found her thoughts stretch far away 

Into some region that beyond her lay, 

And felt she that she stood upon the brink 

Of heavenly streams she could not reach to drink. 

" One summer day the child lay fast asleep, 
Weary with strangest musings high and deep. 
Her soft cheek pillowed on a bed of moss, 
Where shadows of the birds might flit across, 
And, perching on the boughs that overhung. 
Awake her soul to music as they sung. 

" And as she lay there like a poet's dream, 
A bark canoe came slowly down the stream ; 
For know ye, from that hollow near the gate, 
Where now a spring drips out at sleepy rate, 
A crystal river flowed through wood and field 
Until in distant forests 'twas concealed. 

" The plashing oars awoke the Indian maid : 

She started up like timid fawn, afraid ; 

Yet, hidden by the tree 'neath which she slept. 

She stayed, and watched the boat that cautious kept 

Nearing the shore, until it touched the strand. 

And the two rowers leaped upon the land. 

" In wonder now stood Ohwa ; here she saw 
Men such as she had never seen before : 
White were their upturned faces, curling hair 
Lay on their brows in heavy clusters there. 
And o'er their manly forms a sombre gown 
Fell in dark folds until it touched the eround. 



I 



THE SISTERS' CEMETERY. 107 

" * Hold, Father ! see the wigwams we have passed. 
Thank God ! this is our mission reached at last.' 
And falling on their knees in silence there, 
The missionaries poured to Heaven their prayer, 
While on the music of their foreign tongue 
The little Ohwa in a rapture hung. 

" Rising and looking round, the Fathers see 
The Indian girl beneath the old oak-tree. 
Surprised, they gaze upon the lovely child, 
Who seemed an angel in that forest wild ; 
And smiling, made a sign of friendship, peace; 
But Ohwa fled like bird on swift release. 

" Panting she reached her father's silent tent, 
And to the Sachem gave her wonder bent. 
Unmoved and grave, the old chief heard her tale, 
And wondered much who were the strangers pale. 
And going forth, he sent his warrior band 
To know what errand brought them to his land. 

" Five years passed by ; the tribe, converted now. 

Revered the Fathers with the saintly brow ; 

All baptized Christians, loved Christ's holy name. 

And loved to spread the dear " White Mother's" fame, 

And built a little chapel on this ground 

Where now the Sisters' graves are scattered round. 

" But Ohwa, all her dreams awoke to life. 

Peace came and stilled her bosom's wond'ring strife; 

Her pure soul anchored in her Saviour's breast. 

And doubts and fears were laid, with joy, at rest. 

Forgotten was her Indian name so wild, 

In baptism ' Agnes,' for the martyr-child. 



I08 THE SISTERS' CEMETERY. 

" Enraptured, she would sit for hours beguiled, 

As told the Fathers of the Roman child 

Who gave her heart to God, her only spouse, 

By making at His feet her virginal vows. 

And came the question, ' Why not do the same? 

Was she not Christ's ? was Agnes not her name ?' 

" And so she vowed her heart, her soul to Heaven, 
And purer vow to God was never given ; 
And now that she was God's, God's own, — alone,— 
The clouds must lower and the tempest come. 
She had no part with earth, nor knew its taint, 
But Heaven was waiting for the little saint. 

" Long had a pagan Indian sought her hand. 
Had fiercely loved her, nor could understand 
Why Agnes never heeded when he came. 
Nor noticed all his Indian wealth and fame. 
Until they told him that her new-found Lord 
Had gained her heart, — Him only she adored, 

" Then hatred for the Rival, whom he feared 
Would baffle him and all the hopes he reared, 
Gnawed like a viper at his wicked life. 
And sharpened fearful passions into strife. 
None else should gain, if he must lose the prize ; 
Her blood must flow to feast his demon-eyes. 

" Not long he waited. 'Tvvas a summer morn, 
When all the warriors to the hunt had gone, 
And after holy Mass, Communion too, 
Agnes went forth to lonely paths she knew 
To pour her soul out in thanksgiving there, 
And spend some hours in sweet and holy prayer. 



i 



THE SISTERS' CEMETERY. 



109 



" On yonder spot, where now that marble cross 

UpHfts its snowy arms above the moss, 

She knelt alone, communing with her heart, 

When lo ! she heard a voice that made her start : 

' Renounce the Black Robe's God ! My bride, relent ! 

Oh, come and share an Indian chieftain's tent !' 

" She rose with crimson cheek and flashing eye: 
' Tempter, begone ! my tent is yonder sky. 
Taint not the air with such polluting speech, 
Know'st not my Bridegroom is above thy reach?' 
'Then let Him help thee!' hissed the fiend with scorn. 
And gleamed the hatchet o'er her helpless form. 

" Out gushed the crimson torrent from the wound, 
And Agnes sank upon the mossy ground. 
Lifting her heaven-lit eyes with love on high, 
' My sweetest Lord,' she breathed, ' for Thee I die !' 
And then her spotless spirit winged its flight 
Up to the regions of Eternal light. 

" The murderer stood there, like a rooted tree, 

All paralyzed ; he had not power to flee. 

For from the sky there poured a glorious song. 

That sweetly rose, and thrilling swept along, 

And died away above the forest-trees, 

'Till naught was heard except the summer breeze. 

" He turned away. The missionary stood 

Close by the entrance of the little wood. 

' Great God !' he cried. ' Oh, murderer ! wretched one ! 

Repent ! Thy victim calls ! What hast thou done ! 

God will forgive ! Agnes for thee will pray.' 

But, with a yell, the Indian fled away. 



no THE SISTERS' CEMETERY. 

" Upon the spot where she had died in prayer 

The tribe, all weeping, laid the Virgin there. 

And when the Black Robe had performed the rite, 

And hid the sacred relics out of sight, 

To sudden prophecy his soul awoke. 

And to the tribe these wondrous words he spoke : 

"'Virgin of Christ! Martyr for His pure sake, 

Rest thee in peace. Here wilt thou sweetl}' take 

Thy holy sleep; thy palm laid in thy hand, 

Thou art the first to lead a holy band ! 

A Sisterhood of Virgins will surround 

Thy grave with theirs, in consecrated ground.' 

* * * * ;ic * 

" The years rolled on, the tribe was driven away, 

The Indian chapel fell into decay ; 

The trees were felled with mighty skill and toil 

By those who came to till the fertile soil, 

But not a finger rude was ever found 

To touch the grass upon that little mound. 

" And soon appeared upon the hill close by 

A little cross upon a Convent nigh. 

And holy Sisters came at Mercy's call 

To give to God their hearts, their souls, their all ; 

And by the ways of God, which never vary, 

This spot was chosen for their cemetery. 

" Unconscious why, upon the mound they placed 
Yon marble cross ; but never was there traced 
The record of the sacred blood there spilled. 
The migcls told that all had been fulfilled, 
And down the misty ages came the story, 
Lit by the undimmed halo of its glory. 



THE SISTERS CEMETERY. m 

" And here the Sisters gather, one by one, 

In youth, in age, life's solemn labor done ; 

And when the last loud trumpet shall resound, 

To wake earth's children slumb'ring 'neath the ground, 

The Indian martyr, crimson-robed, will stand. 

With palm and crown, among the Virgin band." 



The Sister ceased, and then there came a hush 

After the story ended. None broke upon it. 

'Till at last our souls could be no longer hushed, 

And so we clasped our hands and cried, " How beautiful !" 



PART II. 



DRAMAS. 



"3 



NOTE. 



These Dramas have been arranged and written for various occasions, and 
always appeared with success. Taste and judgment, with regard to posing, 
costume, and sceneiy, are required to perfect the effect. 



114 



DOLORES; 

OR, 

THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 

A DRAMA IN TWO ACTS AND FIVE SCENES. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Mrs. Norton, a -wealthy -widozv, proud and passionate. 

Augusta, her eldest daughter [aged nineteen), haughty and vain. 

Pauline, afterwards Dolores [aged twelve), has great talent for painting. 

Nellie Claghorn [aged fifteen), Mrs. Norton's niece. 

Grace, "i . , 

' )■ sisters. 
Isabel, J 

Constance, baby step-niece. 

Mrs. Worthington, a benevolent "widow, patron of artists, and a cripple, 

who is rolled abotit in a chair. 

Fanchette, her maid. 

Tom Pincher, good-hearted policeman. 

Aunt Betsey, a privileged old nurse in the Norton family. 

Sally Ann Tompkins, a wicked little street singer and pickpocket. 

Miss Edith Temple, ^ 

Miss Clare Meredith, \ fashionable friends of the 'Noxious. 

Miss Heloise Zachare, J 



"5 



Il6 DOLORES; OR, 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. TJie Norton Mansion. Pauline's expulsion. 

Sitting-room in the Norton mansion. Elegantly furnished ; 
easy-chairs ; an easel near table at one side, zvitJi a 
painted plaque standing on it ; table near ivith small 
palette, brushes, etc.; secretary, unlocked, standing on 
other side ; Augusta seated on sofa, examining a costly 
lace liandkerchief which she takes out of a beautifid case. 

Augusta, holding it up with delight. 

Oh ! isn't it lovely ? Isn't it exquisite ? The very richest 
and finest old lace ! and at last it is mine. After thinking of 
it by day, and dreaming of it by night, for the past month ! 
Pshaw ! wasn't I foolish to beseech mamma so much for a 
hundred dollars, when I might have taken those useless old 
jewels in the first place and sold them, instead of waiting 
so long? I am sure she never cares about looking at them 
since papa died, and will never learn that they are missing ; 
allowing that she does, she will suppose a thief has entered 
the room and stolen them while the secretary was unlocked ; 
for indeed she is very careless leaving it open all day. {As- 
sumes vain maimer.) Won't I toy gracefully with this 
dainty handkerchief? I shall just touch it with attar of 
roses, and I will be the belle of the party over at Smith's 
to-morrow night. Not another girl will have such a hand- 
kerchief. I am sure they will almost die of envy. {Be- 
comes nervous.) But suppose mamma sees the handker- 
chief and asks me where I obtained it, what shall I tell her ? 
Oh, I know : I'll say I have been saving my pocket-money ; 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. n; 

mamma is easily deceived, although she has a dreadfully 
proud way of looking at things. I guess if she imagined 
one of her daughters ever stole anything she would drive 
her out into the street in the first impulse, and then be too 
proud to call her back ; so at all risks mamma must not, 
shall not, know it. What would they say at our Convent 
school, I wonder, if they knew Augusta Norton stole? 
The Nuns always said I was vain, but the Nuns forgot that 
they were young ladies once, and liked a nice handkerchief, 
no doubt, too ! Oh, you sweet lace ! I would have done 
almost anything to possess you. 

Enter Pauline. Approaches Augusta. Augusta endeav- 
oring to cover np the JiandkercJiief, says, snappishly, 

Oh, Pauline ! I wish you wouldn't be always following 
me. It is horrid to have such an inquisitive sister. 

Pauline. 

Why, Augusta ! this is the first time I have seen you this 
evening. I came in here to put my paints away, and to see 
if that plaque is dry. You know I finished painting it 
this morning. Come, Gussie dear, don't be cross. {Tries 
to put her arms around her. Kneels beside her chair.) 

Augusta. 

Go away, Pauline. Pm not a child like you ; I don't like 
to be fondled. Besides, I hate you to call me " Gussie." 

Pauline sees end of liandkercJiicf and ptdls it. 

Oh, Augusta, what exquisite lace ! Where did you get 
that lovely handkerchief? 



II 8 DOLORES; OR, 

Augusta, confused. 

You see everything. I bought it, of course. Now leave 
me, PauHne ; I wish to be alone. Go get your plaque 
off that easel. Everybody says that plaque is a perfect 
wonder for a child so young. There, go now. 

Pauline still kneels beside her. 

But the handkerchief: do please let me see it. (Augusta 
hands it nnzvillingly.) It must have been expensive. Where 
in the world did you get so much money ? 

Augusta. 

Don't ask such foolish questions, Lenie. You know 
mamma gives us lots of spending-money. 

Pauline. 

But you don't save yours, Augusta, I know you don't, 
and this looks like Aunt Rundel's point han^dkerchief that 
cost a hundred dollars. 

Augusta, angrity. 

Give me that lace ! You are an inquisitive child. You 
should not wish to know the why and wherefore of every- 
thing. I am quite angry at you. 

Pauline, rising. 

I am very sorry if I have offended you. Don't be angry, 
please. [Stoops and picks np jczvel-case, luhich slips ont of 
Augusta's pocket) Why, Augusta ! what does this mean ? 
See the jewel-case {opens it), — and empty ! Oh, gracious ! the 
precious keepsakes gone ! Oh, Augusta ! 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 119 

Augusta, excited and angry, takes case from Pauline. 

I don't know. Indeed, I don't know anything about the 
jewels. 

Pauline, 

Oh, Augusta! You are trembling. You are nervous 
and excited. You are terrified because I found the case. 
Indeed, you must know. You do know what has become 
of the jewels ! Can it be that you have sold them that you 
might get this lace ? No ! no ! Oh, horrors ! not that, 
Augusta ! {Falls into a chair.) 

Augusta, terribly excited. 

Yes, that, you miserable busybody ! I took them and 
sold them, and I got two hundred dollars for them ; they 
were no use lying in that drawer over there. 

Pauline sinks i?ito a chair and zveeps. 

Sold them ! sold mamma's jewels, and she prized them so 
much ! Oh, Augusta ! what would the Nuns say ! what 
would you say yourself if you only thought of it! Oh, 
Augusta ! I would rather believe there was no Heaven 
than believe you did this. What will mamma say when 
she learns of this 1 

Augusta, fiercely. 

But she must never hear of it. You shall not betray me. 
If you do, Pauline, I'll — I'll — oh, I don't know what I'll do 
to you ! You have always expressed so much affection for 
me. Now let us see some of it. Come, promise me most 
sacredly that you will never reveal what you know. Why, 
mamma would drive me out of the house I Don't you know 



I20 DOLORES; OR, 

well the awful consequences if this were found out? {She 
walks about excitedly) 

Pauline. 

Oh, Augusta ! how you grieve me ! how you frighten 
me ! and rather than expose you I promise. 

Augusta, graspijig her wrist. 
Promise solemnly. 

Pauline. 

I promise solemnly to suffer anything or everything 
rather than betray you. Never will I let it be known that 
you have stooped so low. Mamma must never know that 
her daughter is a thief. Yes, Augusta, trust me to keep 
your sinful secret. I am only a child, but if its weight 
oppresses me by day, and fills my sleep with terror by 
night, I will remain silent and bear your punishment. Give 
me the case; I'll put it in the secretary. Mamma may not 
wish to look at the jewels for a long time. God grant she 
won't! {Takes case from Augusta.) 

Augusta, going. 
Remember your promise! 

Pauline. 

I shall never forget it. Oh, if I could but believe you 
innocent ! 

Augusta. 
Tut, tut! don't be a child always, Pauline. 

Pauline. 
Nay, awhile ago I was a child, but now I have grown 



THROUGH THE TTRES OF SORROW. i-i 

old in an hour. I feel like a woman, — a tearful woman. Go, 
go, Augusta! lest some one come and find your secret out. 

Augusta. 

Remember ! 

Pauline. 

Oh, I will remember ! I love you, my poor sister, and no 
one shall dare call you a thief. Go! please go, Augusta! 
{Exit Augusta.) 

Pauline luccps bitterly. 

Oh, my God ! have I done wrong? ought I to keep such 
a secret? What awful truths one must learn! I must hide 
her crime at once. [She goes to secretary. A boiv of ribbon 
drops from her shoulder.) 

Enter Aunt Betsey, quietly, ivith diist-brush. She sees 
Pauline's back, and steps over to her and sighs. Pauline 
starts and turns. 

Aunt Betsey. 

Law's sakes. Miss Lenie dear, what are you doing so 
quiet-like? 

Pauline. 

Oh, nothing. Aunt Betsey; nothing, nothing. 

Aunt Betsey stands. 

Well now, I never ! how I skeered the child ! Why, dearie, 
what odd-looking box is that you have? Oh, it's your 
mamma's case of jewels. Well I remember them. Do let 
me look at 'em, honey ; it's nigh on to ten years since I seen 
a sight of them. " Time and tide wait for no man." Over- 



122 DOLORES; OR, 

haul your Webster's Dictionary {she is zvalking round the 
room putting tilings to rights) for that, and when found make 
a note of it. 

Pauline. 

No, Aunt Betsey, I can't show them to you now; I'm 
putting them away. 

Aunt Betsey. 

Very well, child ; some other day. But your eyes is red 
lookin' and wet. Honey, you haven't been crying, I hope ? 
(Stands.) 

Pauline. 

Yes, Aunt Betsey, a little bit. But isn't it as natural for 
young people to cry as to laugh ? 

Aunt Betsey. 

Well, I reckon you're right there. But young misses like 
you, as has nothing to cry about, oughtn't to displease the 
Lord with worriting. 

Pauline. 

I'm not worrying, Aunt Betsey; I feel sad and I want to 
be by myself I want to read some of papa's old letters 
to mamma. So won't you leave me to myself? 

Aunt Betsey, fussing about. 

To be sure I will. I only came in to fix up the room a 
bit. Don't you be low-spirited, honey; your papa's in a 
better world. 

Pauline, excited. 

Oh ! do go away, Aunt Betsey ! When any one is sad it 
is best to leave her alone. I know I am flurried and dis- 
agreeable, but overlook it this time, please. 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 123 

Aunt Betsey. 

Bless your heart, 1 don't mind it at all. I only wish you 
would put your shiny head on this old bosom, which has 
held you since you was a baby, and cry your eyes dry. 
Your lady mother is stiff-like and proud, and you children 
is kind of afeard of her I'm thinkin'. Though a better 
woman or a more generouser never walked ! A real old 
stock lady too, as would be a queen and be natural under 
her crown. " A perfect woman nobly planned." Look in 
your " Paradise Lost" for tJiat, and when found make a note 
of it. 

Pauline, crying out. 

Oh, Aunt Betsey, won't you go, please? 

Aunt Betsey, iviping eyes ivith her apron. 

I'm gone, honey. You have made the tears come into old 
Betsey's eyes. [Exit.) 

Pauline. 

Poor old Aunt Betsey ! she would gabble here all night, 
and I know she would die for me. Oh, what a base hypo- 
crite I am ! There, now I have hidden the case at the 
bottom of that pile of papa's letters. [Closes secretary.) 
Oh, if mamma should come ! I am trembling all over. 
Oh ! if she ever finds this out she might drive us out of the 
house ; she has such a proud sense of honor. Oh ! [hold- 
ing cheeks) I am giddy with excitement ; my head is burst- 
ing. I must go to my room and bathe my face. [Exit. A 
pause?) 

From other side enter Mrs. Norton and Nellie Claghorn, 
her niece. They sit dozvn. Mrs. Norton very stately. 



124 DOLORES; OR, 



Nellie. 



Now, aunt, you promised to sliovv me those treasured 
jewels to-day, and to tell me their history. You know I 
have never seen them. I dearly love to look upon family 
antiques; to hear the history of some precious jewel which 
one's great-grandmother or great-grandfather has handled. 
Do, please, show them to me, aunt. 

Mrs. Norton. 

You shall see them, Nellie. {Rises and goes to the secre- 
tary. Stands) They were the property of your uncle's 
grandfather, and have been in the family over a generation. 
Ah ! when my husband was alive we often looked at them, 
and I dare say poor Charles has repeated their history a 
hundred times ; but since he died I seldom touch them, 
for the sight of them revives sad memories of happy days 
that are forever gone from me ! Oh, your Uncle Charles 
was so kind, Nellie ! ( Weeps) 

Nellie, putting arm around her. 

Come away, aunt; never mind the jewels. I was foolish 
to speak of them. You are trembling, aunt. Your eyes 
are full of tears and I am the cause. Forgive me, Aunt 
Eleanor. 

Mrs. Norton zuipcs eyes. 

It is but a passing pain. It is sweet to mourn the dead ; 
for their virtues grow fairer through years. Can we say 
so much of the living? [S/ie opens secretary ; pulls out one 
drazuer, then another.) Strange the jewels are not in their 
usual place. They were never removed from this drawer. 
[Examines.) Well, well, the girls were always admirers of 
them, and I suppose either Augusta or Pauline has had 



THROUGH THE FUiES OF SORROW. 125 

them out, and, girl-like, put them in a different place; 
secure no doubt, for I cannot find a trace of them. 



Nellie. 

Do you leave this secretary unlocked, aunt ? What if 
some thief should enter the room and steal the jewels ? 

Mrs. Norton. 

Absurd, Nellie ! there hasn't been a robbery in the neigh- 
borhood for years ; and, besides, a thief couldn't very well 
enter the house without being seen. 

Nellie. 
I sincerely hope not. Look over there, aunt. 

Mrs. Norton. 

I have looked everywhere. Gracious ! if they were 
stolen. How dreadful to think of! 

Nellie. 

There, aunt ; raise those letters. Isn't that a jewel-case 
under them ? 

Mrs. Norton. 

Well, well, so it is. My eyesight must be failing. Come, 
we will be seated. [TJiey go a?id sit doiun) 

Mrs. Norton, opening case. 

It seems light. {^Horrified) Gracious mercy ! it is 
empty ! Some one has taken the jewels ! Gone ! gone ! 
[Starts up in great excitement^ My fairest fortune! for 



126 DOLORES; OR, 

their presence brought hiui back to me, reminded me of 
Jiim in so many ways. 

Nellie. 

Oh, wretched robber! to steal so much of you, and 
benefit himself so little. 

Mrs. Norton, excited, walks around zvringing her hands. 

See, Nellie ! only the case left ! Oh, my precious heir- 
looms ! gone ! gone ! What shall I do ? 

Nellie folloivs her. 

Indeed I do not know, aunt. Can't you employ a de- 
tective ? Surely that is the best to be done. The thieves 
have left no trace, no clue ? 

Mrs. ^owio^ goes back to secretary. Stoops. 

Ah ! what is this ? a blue ribbon dropped by the thief, 
perhaps ; and look, Nellie, a sleeve-button dropped in the 
drawer; " P" is on it. Oh, heavens ! I have seen both be- 
fore. She wore both to-day. Nellie ! Nellie ! look here. 
Do you recognize these ? Oh, my God ! My own child 
is a thief! [Falls into a chair and covers face xvith hands.) 

Nellie, excited, looks at button. 

One of Pauline's sleeve-buttons ! and you found it in 
the drawer I in the drawer with the empty jewel-case ! Oh, 
it is all a mistake! Please, aunt, do not judge in haste. 
[Goes to her.) 

Mrs. Norton, tearfully. 

But the bow of ribbon ! I can have only one belief. 
Oh, Heaven ! I dare not utter it again. 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 12 j 

Nellie. 

Come, come, aunt; surely you don't think Pauline is the 
culprit. 

Mrs. Norton. 

Oh, Nellie ! Her button ! her ribbon ! I saw both on 
her this morning. What else can I think ? Oh, miserable 
mother that I am ! If it is my child I'll drive her out of 
my house. The blood of the Nortons has never been so 
foully disgraced. Sooner would I see her a beggar than a 
thief! 

Nellie, indignant. 

Oh, aunt, for shame ! Pauline is too noble a child ; she 
has your purest, best blood in her veins. Where, think you, 
are her Convent teachings ? her own singularly strict 
sense of duty ? I have often wondered at a child so young 
having such a fine sense of honor. She would never, 
never do such a deed. It is but a sad circumstance, or 
perhaps the planning of a clever thief. 

Mrs. Norton. 

The jewels were special favorites with Pauline. Augusta 
never seemed to value them. Has not vanity prompted 
girls to thieving before this, Nellie ? But alas that it should 
be my child, my favorite child, — a thief! 

Nellie. 

Oh, aunt, you are unjust ! She is no more a thief than I 
am ! Oh, me ! I see bitter severity in your face. Surely 
vou do not convict her on such scant evidence ? 



128 DOLORES: OR, 

Mrs. Norton. 

Evidence enough ! She is the thief! Oh, what misery 
in the word! She is no lonsrer a child of mine. 



Nellie. 

Small is the robber's prize, and great your loss, aunt, if 
by his deed you doubt her honesty. Oh, add not to your 
loss by losing your love for your child, aunt! Judge not 
till you prove that she is guilty. Here is Augusta ; I trust 
she can release you from all doubt. 

Enter Augusta. Is surprised, etc. Mrs. Norton covers 
face zvith handkerchief. 

Augusta. 

What in the world is the matter? Oh, mother! you are 
weeping. Are you ill? Tell me, mother. {Bends over 
her.) 

Mrs. Norton. 

No, not ill, Augusta, but torn by crueller pangs than 
ever has disease. {Points to case.) The jewels are gone 
and this sad evidence dropped to mark the thief. {Hands 
the button and ribbon.) 

Augusta takes button and ribbon. Affects astonishment. 

The jewels stolen ! {Examines bozu and button.) And 
you think you have traced the thief by these. {Astonished) 
Why, mother, this is Pauline's button. This ribbon she 
made into a bow but yesterday. Oh ! would she take the 
jewels, — the jewels I have so often heard her admire? 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 129 

Nellie. 

No, no, Augusta ! It is all some dreadful mistake or plot. 
Say you know it is impossible that the child should have 
done this. 

Augusta. 

Oh, mother! oh, Nellie! would that I could say so! 
for I devoutly love my little sister ; but, oh ! I have often 
thought she would do anything to get those jewels. And 
now I would weep to say it ; but it is vanity that has made 
her a thief 

Nellie. 

Oh, Augusta ! how can you convict the child on such 
evidence! What a demon is accursed suspicion! {Tunis 
azvay, zvith handkerchief to eyes.) 

Mrs. Norton. 

Tell me, Augusta, what whim or fancy or temptation 
could have drawn her to such a fearful act ? 

Augusta. 

Oh, mother ! if she is guilty, blame a new lace handker- 
chief I bought for Smith's party. She saw it, and got so 
inquisitive about it that she quite bothered me, and 
seemed so envious that she had nothing like it that she 
fairly cried. She spoke too, — alas ! I must say it, — about 
selling those jewels to buy something like it. But who 
would believe that she, a child, could do so ? 

Mrs. Norton, angry. 

Did any one ever hear of such depravity? She has cast 
herself forever out of my heart and home, the little robber! 

9 



I^O DOLORES; OR, 

Augusta, 

It is her first offence, mother. Come, say you will forgive 
her. Call it folly, madness, but forgive her, pity her weak- 
ness. 

Mrs. Norton. 

Oh, that my teachings — oh, that her faith should be 
so disregarded ! Forgive her, Augusta ? No, never ! (Pau- 
line appears at door, hesitates, seejns dismayed.) Come here, 
miss. You tremble and hesitate and reveal your guilt, 
which we have already learned. 

Pauline. 

Mother, you are angry ; why do you look so at me ? 
What do you mean ? I never saw you look so before. 
[Goes to kiss her.) 

Mrs. Norton, pushing her away. 

Don't touch me, you ungrateful child ! Oh ! {Slie hides 
her face ivitJi handkerchief.) 

Pauline cries out. TJirozvs herself on Nellie. 
Oh, Cousin Nellie ! what does mamma mean ? 

Augusta to Mrs. Norton. 
Forgive her, mother. 

Mrs. Norton, starting ///. 

I grow enraged at such deception. Pauline, this flimsy 
show of innocence takes the last spark of compassion for 
you out of my heart. It convinces me of your crime. 



THROUGH THE FJRES OF SORROW. 



131 



Pauline, in agony. 

My crime ! Oh, Heaven ! have the jewels been missed ? 
[All look significantly. Pauline throzvs herself on sofa and 
buries her face.) 

Augusta, really frightened. 
Oh, mother! don t do anything to her. 

Mrs. Norton, firionsly. 

Be silent, Augusta! No severity will be too great for 
this. Pauline, lift your head up. Where are those jewels ? 
What did you do with them ? Tell me ! 

Pauline kneels. 
Oh, mamma ! 

Mrs. Norton. 
Answer me ! 

Pauline. 

Oh, mamma! I don't know where they are. Oh, Au- 
gusta! {Holds out Jier hands to her, but Augusta Ijd'jis 
toward other end of roo7n.) 

Mrs. Norton. 

Miserable child, where are those jewels? Did you sell 
them ? 

Pauline, ifi anguish. 

No, mamma ! Oh, I don't know anything of them ! 
Augusta, why don't you speak? 



132 



DOLORES; OR, 



Mks. Norton. 



No, she can't speak. I am the one to speak. PauHne, 
tell me what you have done with those jewels. 

Pauline. 

Oh, mother! I have done nothing with, them I dont 
know where they are. {Enter Aunt Betsey.) Oh, Aunt 
Betsey ! didn't you see me putting the jewel-case away 
this morning? 

Aunt Betsey, advancing. 

Sure enough it was the " case," and the case only, Miss 
Lenie ; I didn't see anything else. Your face was flushed, 
honey, and you couldn't get your Aunt Betsey out of the 
room soon enough. {To Mrs. Norton.) Are the jewels 
gone, ma'am ? 

Mrs. Norton. 

Yes : stolen ! See this ribbon and this button, and look at 
Pauline's apron, and see her cuff open ! (Pauline looks also, 
and is amazed to see these articles gone?) 

Aunt Betsey. 

Oh, my pet ! and is this the reason you wouldn't show 
them to me? Oh, no! No, you couldn't have taken them. 

Pauline, intensely. 

No, no! Aunt Betsey, I did not take them! Oh, 
mamma! don't you believe me? I could not, — did not ! 

Mrs. Norton. 
Enough ! I have evidence enough. I must believe you 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 



^Zl 



guilty; and if one would steal, a falsehood would not be a 
deeper degradation. Oh, sad is my heart that you have 
disgraced your name ! Tell me what you have done with 
those jewels (Pauline weeps in silence)^ Do you hear 
me, miss? Return them, or tell me what you have done 
with them, or leave your home forever ! You may go to 
the House of Correction. My roof shall not shelter such 
a corrupted child ! 

Pauline, on her knees. 

See, mother, on my knees, I solemnly declare I am* 
innocent. I did not take the jewels. Oh, Augusta ! why 
don't you speak ? 

Mrs. Norton, angrily. 

Not a word, Augusta ! And you, little wretch, add false- 
hood again to theft ! Go ! leave my house, and never set 
foot in it; and if we ever meet, never call me mother, for I 
do not know you, nor dare you to tell your name, or I'll 

have you arrested and jailed. (Pauline shudders and sinks 
dozvn.) Go, I tell you ! 

Aunt Betsey, crying, with apron to Jier eyes. 

Begging your pardon, ma'am, where will the little 
creature go ? You don't mean to drive her out, the child. 

Mrs. Norton, ititerrupting. 

Silence! Will you ever learn your place, Betsey? Let 
her herd with thieves; she is no longer a Norton. Be- 
gone ! 



134 DOLORES; OR, 

Pauline, rising up, firmly. 

Mother, I am a Norton, and if you drive me out, do not 
fear that you will ever be troubled with me again. I am, 
indeed, a child, but God in Heaven, who knows my inno- 
cence, will protect me. {Goes to Augusta. Augusta turns 
azvay.) 

Pauline, reproaclifitlly. 

Oh, my sister ! do you — do you — do you turn away ? and 
am I then alone? Does every one believe me guilty? 

Nellie, throwing anus around her. 

No, Lenie ; I don't! I could not believe you would do 
such a thing. I shall never believe it ! 

Mrs. Norton. 

You are too sentimental, Nellie. I want no one to make 
a scene ; the facts are horrible enough. Come here, and let 
her go ! {They all zvitJidratv from Pauline, luho lifts 7ip her 
hands to Heaven in centre of stage, pauses, takes iip a large 
shazvl that lies on a chair, throivs it around her, looks around, 
takes her plague off the easel, and walks sadly, slowly, away, 
while all have their faces covered but Mrs. Norton.) 

Pauline, looks back. 

Farewell, mother ! Some day you will shed bitter tears 
for this cruel act, but may Heaven protect you. Farewell, 
Augusta. Oh, my poor sister ! Good-by, Nellie. (Nellie 
turns to rush toivards her, but Mrs. Norton seises her arm 
firmly. She cries out Oh, Lenie ! and fails into a chair. 
Pauline disappears. Mrs. Norton ivalks out the other xvay, 
haughtily, zvith Augusta, leaving only Aunt Betsey and 
Nellie. A pause.) 



i 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 135 

Nellie, stamping her foot. 
This is dreadful ! She never did this ! 



Aunt Betsey, with apron ?ip, crying. 

It's no more hke Miss Lenie's doin's than chalk's like 
cheese; but don't, Miss Nellie, don't cross the missus. 
You know how hot she is. 

Nellie. 

I don't care ; I am going to befriend Pauline. (Nellie 
leaves) 

Aunt Betsey, wiping eyes. 

This is awful work ! Poor little lamb ! put out of the 
house that away. [Wipes eyes.) She did look too miser- 
able sad ; and yet there was nothing to show up that she 
was innocent except those eyes of hern. When I thinks 
of the whole thing I gets giddy; and yet I can't believe it. 
'Tisn't like her; and if I hadn't seed her so flurried-like 
at that sectarian over there with me own eyes, Pd have 
walked through the whole world to defend her. [Shakes 
her head and walks around.) 'Tain't like her, and the more 
I think of it the harder it is to believe ; and yet Pm such 
an old softie ! I could have swore to it a minute ago. I 
don't believe it now. [Cries.) Poor lamb ! Pll take up 
with Miss Nellie, and nothin' shall happen her. [She luipes 
her eyes with her apron.) Poor lamb ! [Goes out slowly, say- 
ing) Poor lamb! this is an awful dark night, and I thought 
I heard it thundering awhile ago. [Cries.) Poor lamb ! 

Cnrtain falls. 



136 DOLORES; OR, 

SCENE II. Stage darkened ; thunder heard ; dashes of 
rain ; pause. 

Tom Pincher, policeman, with stick, and rubber coat and 
boots and lantern, enters. 

Tom Pincher, walking slowly up and doivn. 

Crackle ! this is going to be a boss night for lifters ! Not 
on my beat, though, I'll warrant you. I've got a good 
supper, and a good coat on, and a good stick here, and feel 
jolly all round, and just now I'm a thinkin' I ought to 
thank the Lord ! I have a good woman at home, who has 
got my little Pinchers all tucked in their cribs by this time, 
and I've nothing to bother me but a fear of those rascally 
thieves making hay while the rain falls. Ha ! ha ! it used to 
be while the sun shines, but these robbers takes the night 
and the storm for their hay-makin' ! Hist ! [street-singer's 
voice heard) there's one of them squealing little outlaws as 
picks pockets and fleeces honest fools who like a tune. I'll 
go for her and hush her up. It's too late for birds to be out 
singing. {He goes out. Voice continues {niejTy tune, Tx2i-\-d.- 
la), nearer, but before singer stops enter Pauline tvith Iter cloak 
wrapped close around her; looks beivildered ; it thunders; 
voice stops ; thunders again afid again ; rain dashes ; Paul- 
ine crouches dozvn on floor ; when there is a hdl she speaks.) 

Pauline. 

Oh, my good God ! what will become of me ? out alone 
in this darkness and storm, — no mother, no home, no 
friends, — where will I go? where will I sleep to-night? 
Oh, Augusta ! how can you sleep when you know your 
little sister is suffering, and without a spot to lay her head ! 
Oh, how that thunder terrifies me ! But who was that 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 137 

singing? I thought I heard singing. Where did that 
voice come from ? 

Enter Sally Ann zvWi big tunbrella open ; tliroivs it dozun 

open. 

Sally, stepping zip. 

Why, it came from me. Who are you, I'd like to know ? 
I sing for a hvin'. • What do you do ? 

Pauline. 
I'm a poor child without a home. 

Sally. 

None of your yarns. You ain't a poor child. Girls as 
wear such clothes as you got on under your shawl ain't 
poor no how. / am ! 

Pauline. 

Are you ? Haven't you got any place to go ? 

Sally. 

Why, yes ! I've got a garret ; but mom she beats me all 
the time, and pop he's never in, and I have to go round 
singing in the streets to feed myself But I'm awful hun- 
gry to-night ! 

Pauline. 

Here's a quarter, if you are hungry ; I couldn't eat. You 
buy something to eat. 

Sally, sneeiingly. 

I thought you was a " poor child" ! Haven't you got 
fifty cents ? 



138 DOLORES; OR, 

Pauline. 

I have only got another quarter, and I want it to sleep 
somewhere. 

Sally. 

Well, you are a queer one. You look like one of the 
quality. I'll sing a song for you if you listen. {She sings, 
sitting on a log or stone beside Pauline. During the song 
Pauline zveeps. Sally, at its close, strikes her) What yer 
cryin' for ? You've got to pay me for that song. What'U 
you give me ? 

Pauline, iviping her eyes. 
Indeed, I have nothing but this one quarter. 

Sally pulls off her shawl. 

Well, I've sfot to o-et something. I want that frock 
you've got on, and that apron, too, and them slippers and 
stockings, and hurry up. [Drives her around the stage) 

Pauline, drazving back. 
Go away ! go away ! I'll scream. 

Sally, striking her again. 

Ha! ha! scream away ! I'll beat you till I get them. 
[She strikes) 

Pauline. 

Oh ! oh ! you hurt me ! What do you want me to 
wear, if I give them to you ? 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. i op 



Sally, holding her wrist. 

Why, you can wear my frock ; and you needn't wear 
anything on your feet ; folks as good as you goes bare- 
foot. Off with them slippers ! (Pauline stoops dozvu and 
takes off slippers. Sally grabs them atid puts them on.) 
Hurry up, you young snipe ! I ain't a bit obliged to you. 
Take off that apron ! 

Pauline takes it off. 
Don't take my dress! Please don't! 

Sally, striking her. 

You haven't got any more spunk than a chicken. Give 
me that other quarter. [Sees plaque.) Oh, ho ! what's 
this dinner-plate ? 

Pauline, sjiatcJiing it. 

Give that back to me ! it is all I have. Here, take my last 
quarter and leave me. [Thunder heard) 

Sally, taking it and the shaiul and apron. 

Whew ! there's thunder ! I guess I'll go. Anyhow, I 
hear old Tom Pincher coming. Here's a good-by, you 
beggar ! [Strikes lier ivith umbrella and runs, Just as 
Pincher makes his appearance, lantern and all. Pauline 
crouches down) 

Pincher, rushing after Sally. 
Halloo ! you young rascal ! where are you goin' ? Ha ! 



I40 DOLORES; OR, 

who's this ? [Stoops doivn and catches '?a\jia'^^. Pauline 
lifts her head. ) 

PiNCHER, dragging her front by the arm. 

Lordy ! who have we here? This is no street tramp. 
What's your name, youngster ? Are you one of those 
young thieves ? 

Pauline. 

Please, sir, indeed I'm not! That little girl just ran 
away with my shoes and my cloak, and apron, and my last 
cent. I am not a thief, but I am without a home. 

PiNCHER. 

They all tell pitiful stories. 

Pauline. 
Oh, dear, kind sir! I am telling the truth. 

PiNCHER. 

Why ain't you home with your mother? 

Pauline sobs. 
Oh ! because 

PiNCHER. 

Something wrong there, is there? Hey! will you tell 
yer name ? 

Pauline. 

My name ! Oh, I was forbidden to tell my name! 

PiNCHER. 

Here's a queer one ! Why, then, Pll have to take you to 
the lock-up, if yer have no account to give of yourself 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 



141 



Pauline falls on licr knees. 

Oh, dear sir ! please do not ! Haven't you got any little 
daughters at home ? and don't you love them ? and if you 
found one of them out in the storm, would you take her to 
the lock-up ? Dear Mr. Policeman, won't you have pity 
on a poor outcast little girl whose sorrow is so great that 
she has no place to go, no friends, no home, and all be- 
cause of some one else's sin ? Oh, pity me ! {She sinks on 
the floor) 

PiNCHER rnbs his eyes zvitJi his sleeve. 

'Pon my word, you've made me cry. Cheer up, little 
girl, ril not let anything happen you. I see you're one 
of the quality, and them quality folks does hard things 
sometimes to their own flesh and blood. What did yer 
let that young singing thief carry off your clothes for? 
It's an old trick of hers. I wish I could get my stick on 
her shoulders. 

Pauline. 

Let her have them ; only I have no place to go. Will 
you take this painting {shozvs plaqne) and let me sleep at 
your house to-night ? I think if you sell it it will pay for 
my lodging. 

PiNCHER, holding it up admiringly. 
That's a pooty-lookin' dish. Where did you get it? 

Pauline. 

It's a plaque, and I painted it myself. I can do plenty 
more. 

PiNCHER, amazed. 

Crackle ! Did you put them colored figgers and flowers 
on it with them little bits of fingers you've got ? 



142 DOLORES; OR, 

Pauline. 

Yes, sir; indeed I did. 

Pinch ER. 

Laws! Well, I know your chance, then. Are yer 
willin' to work more of them for a livin' ? 

Pauline. 
Yes, sir! Oh, yes, indeed. Can you help me? 

PiNCHER. 

Yer don't look like as if yer were used to tellin' lies, but I'll 
soon find out all that about yer if yer are. But yer chance 
is Mrs. Worthington, as good a lady as ever walked. She's 
crippled and never gets off her cheer. They rolls it in and 
out of her room, and she has handles to it, and it does as 
good as feet any day. She has a young brother as is what 
they call an artist ; and their house is all hung with pictures 
as real as life, and she kind of made a vow to help young 
people as wants to learn to paint. So Til show you up, if 
yer satisfied to stay at old Tom Pincher's till mornin'. 

Pauline takes hold of his ami. Tries to kiss his hand. 
Oh, dear, kind sir! how can I thank you ! 

PiNCHER. 

That'll do. Hold on now ! If yer hadn't talked that 
way about my little darters, — as is fast asleep now, God 
bless 'em ! — yer wouldn't have got at my heart so easy ; but 
I couldn't see yer in the lock-up when yer talked that away. 
Come now, I'll take you to Mrs. Pincher, and to-morrow 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 143 

we'll find out something about you and take you up to Mrs. 
Worthington. What'll I call yer if yer won't tell yer name ? 

Pauline, emphatically. 

Call me Dolores, for my life henceforth will be filled with 
sorrow. 

PiNCHER. 

All right, Miss 'Lores. Come along ; that " dinner-plate" 
of yourn has made yer fortune. [Exil.) 

Curtain Falls. 



SCENE III. The Norton Drazving-Room. Augusta seated 
at some fancy-tvork. She rocks herself at intervals ; looks 
distressed and nervous. 

Augusta. 

Oh, miserable being that I am ! For two whole weeks 
I have lived a life of deceit, seemingly happy, yet with a 
viper gnawing at my very soul, — the viper of remorse ! All 
night Pauline stands at my bedside with pale and tearful 
face, reminding me she is innocent, and in the daytime I 
am perpetually in terror lest some dreadful news of her 
death, or perhaps worse, may come to mamma and drive her 
to insanity. Yet I dare not, dare not, confess it! Oh, no ! 
no, never ! 

Enter Aunt Betsey. 

Miss Augusta, there are three young ladies as is waiting 
for your pleasure. Here are their cards. I took them from 
the maid, who waits to know if she will tell them you are 



141 DOLORES; OR, 

engaged. She said, miss, you told her this afternoon you 
would see no one. 

Augusta, taking cards. 

Who are they, Aunt Betsey? {Reads) Edith Temple. 
Misery ! Clare Meredith, Heloise Zacharie ! Oh, Aunt 
Betsey ! I must receive them. They are the fashionables 
of the town, and I should never be forgiven did I excuse 
myself Tell Kittie to send them up. 

Aunt Betsey. 

I will, Miss Augusta. Don't be so down-hearted, miss, 
all will come right yet : " After- the storm cometh a great 
calm." Overhaul the Book of Wisdom, and when found, 
make a note and act accordingly. [Goes out.) 

Augusta. 

I never knew Aunt Betsey to end a speech without that. 
Well, I must rouse up and be my old self again. Pshaw ! 
Pauline must be somewhere all right. The thing will 
straighten out by degrees. What is the use in worrying? 

Enter three faslnonably-drcssed young ladies. 

Augusta rises and salutes them. 

My dear friends, I am very glad to see you. Won't 
you be seated ? 

Edith. 

Why, Augusta, you do look miserable. Why don't 
3^ou take a little exercise? Ride out more, and your color 
will return. 

Heloise. 

You have become a regular hermit of late ; I haven't seen 
you out shopping for an age. 



THROUGH THE FmES OF SORROW. 



Clare. 



145 



Surely, Augusta, you don't intend keeping in-doors this 
way? We called to tell you of such a pleasant plan we 
have made, and we only need you to make us perfectly 
happy. 

Augusta. 

Indeed, my dear Clare, you are very kind, but I have 
lost my desire for enjoyment since {covers her face) the 
[sighs) disgrace. 

Edith. 

Oh, Augusta! Why, that is nothing. There must be a 
black sheep in every family ! No one minds that. 

Heloise. 

It isn't even spoken of now. Of course at first every 
one was astonished at that little creature. But now no 
one thinks of it. 

Augusta. 

But loe think of it, and mamma is quite crushed. Oh, 
it was dreadful ! 

Edith. 

But do you think it was Pauline? Pardon me, Augusta. 
I would not have attempted to mention the matter unless 
you introduced it. 

Augusta, drawing chair closer. 

Of course you are my intimate friends, and I can speak 
unreservedly. 

All. 
Certainly. Can you doubt us ? 



146 DOLORES; OR, 

Augusta. 

Well, Clare, you remember how often Pauline spoke of 
those jewels ? 

Clare. 
Why, she fairly raved about them. 

Augusta. 
Heloise, did you ever hear her ? 

Heloise. 

Not that I remember. Indeed, I always had such an 
exalted opinion of that child, that nothing would convince 
me of her guilt. 

Edith. 

That's just like you, Heloise ! The Zacharies are all 
stubborn. 

Augusta. 

Would that I could believe as does Heloise ! but the 
proofs are too strong. 

Clare. 
What were the proofs ? 

Augusta. 

Pauline's sleeve-button found in the drawer, and a ribbon 
off her apron found at the secretary the very hour the 
jewels were missed, and her own flurried manner and 
crimson face. Besides, when she came into the room before 
they were mentioned at all, she cried out involuntarily, 
when she saw every one in confusion, " Have the jewels 
been missed ?" 



THROUGH THE FH^ES OF SORROW. 147 

Clare, 
Why, there could be no earthly doubt after that. 

Heloise. 
And did Mrs. Norton expel her from the house then ? 

Augusta, sighing. 
That minute ! Poor mamma is so proud and quick- 
tempered. She was so shocked, so roused, that she drove 
her out into the street that very evening. And oh, girls ! 
there was such a storm that night. I have not dared to 
breathe her name, but I am fairly wild with anxiety to 
know where she is. No one seems to know where she 
went. 

Edith. 

Don't fret. Pauline wasn't one of these cowards who 
will sit down and die on the road. She is in some safe 
place without the fear of a doubt. I say a safe place, too, 
for she was an uncommonly firm child. She will make 
her way through the world. Don't fear, 

Clare. 
But can't you sympathize with Augusta in her anxiety? 
Pauline is not the less her sister. 

Edith, 
Oh, to be sure ! Still, my idea is that Providence wills 
that the erring should be punished sooner or later. And 
why not in this case ? 

Augusta, hiding her face and groiving agitated. 
Oh, Edith! don't say any more, I implore you! {Girls 
gather around Augusta.) 



1^8 DOLORES; OR, 

•Edith, embracing her. 

Do pardon me, Augusta ! I am too severe. I know your 
high spirit and noble soul revolt at this sad error, and yet 
I forget that she is your sister. 

Clare. 

Let us talk on some other subject. This grows too 
painful. Augusta, my plan ! You have said nothing 
about it ; not a question. 

Augusta, recovering liersdf. 

Excuse my display of feeling, but I could not help it. 
Tell me your plan, Clare. 

Clare. 

Why, if the weather continue fine, we are coming here 
on horseback early Tuesday morning; you must join us, 
and we will all ride over to the mountain, where our grooms 
and a camp breakfast will await us ; then we will visit the 
basket-maker's daughter, who has such a marvellous voice. 
We will hear her sing, and return to dinner at four, and be 
ready at tea to give an account of our adventures to our 
respective mammas. 

Heloise. 
Does the plan meet your approval ? 

Augusta. 
It does indeed. 

Clare. 

Do not forget that the basket-maker's daughter is poor, 
so we must consecrate our fun by an act of charity, — each 
one must bring an alms. 



THROUGH THE FHiES OF SORROW. 



Edith, risins^. 



149 



I, for one, will not forget it. But don't you think we had 
better be going home ? 

Augusta. 

Ah, girls! do not go yet; I feel oppressed with sadness. 

Edith. 

Come, Augusta, don't get foolish. Cheer up and think 
about Tuesday morning. Good-by. 

Augusta salutes each. 

Adieu, my friends. (Heloise says Au revoir, Clare says 
Auf weidersehen. Exit) 

Augusta, alone, in a reverie. Sinks into a chair and folds 

Jier Jiands. 

More dark deception. But there is no use feeling as I 
do; the thing is done, and I must keep it up to the bitter 
end. But, oh ! I am afraid — I am afraid of Almighty God. 
{Solemnly folding her Jiands) What, oh, what will become 
of me ! Poor innocent Pauline ! 

Enter Aunt Betsey. Wipes her eyes xvith corner of apron. 

Aunt Betsey uses feather brusli or duster. 

Sure enough, Miss Augusta, it's what I am saying every 
hour, — poor innocent Miss Lenie ! and 

Augusta, angrily starting np. 

Aunt Betsey, were you daring to listen to what I was 
saying ? 



I50 DOLORES; OR, 

Aunt Betsey. 
Lor'! no, Miss Augusta; I was only- 



AuGUSTA, inter]'?! pting. 

Don't say it again! It seems to me, Aunt Betsey, you 
are always around at the wrong time. 

Aunt Betsey. 

I am begging your pardon, miss, but your lady mother 
is going out driving and wants you just a moment down in 
the library. 

Augusta, leaving. 

You should have said that at once, Aunt Betsey, and not 
join in a remark that was not intended for you to hear. 
{Exit) 

Aunt Betsey alo7ie. Dusts. 

Look at that now ! Like mother, like daughter. " Train 
up a child in the way it should go, and when it grows up 
it will be the reverse." Overhaul your Book of Wisdom 
for that, and when found make a note of the same. Well, 
if Miss Augusta didn't get excited over nothing Im not 
Betsey. I have watched her pretty close since the poor little 
lamb was driven out into the storm, and she is altogether 
too restless and flightful to make me think it's grievin' for 
Miss Lenie she is. I thought she was at first, but grievin' 
would make her more sorrowful-like and less quick and 
scary. Oh, Blessed Virgin Mother ! watch over that little 
lamb ! It's wonderful that not a word of news can be got 
about her at all, at all. Miss Nellie bids fair to be sick 
with sorrow, and she's goin' away soon across the waters, 
and I believe the missus is pinin' with worriting already, but 
she'd die sooner than go back of her word. Them jewels 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 



151 



is the queer misfortunate things. Not an inquire has the 
missus made for them, not a word, no more nor if the trouble 
was about something else. Betty said the other day, when 
she was a-tendin' to Miss Augusta's hair, that she told her 
to open a jewel-case on her bureau for a pin, and Betty got 
hold of a handkerchief, and she thought Miss Augusta'd fly 
off the chair she was on ; she got white as a sheet. " Put 
that away!" she screamed, as if Betty was a-stealin' it. 
There's something wrong with Miss Augusta, and it isn't 
sorrow either ; and never a prayer does she say, nor a 
blessed rosary ; and hasn't she put the statue of the 
Blessed Virgin that the Nuns at the Convent gave her into 
the bureau-drawer. There's something wrong with Miss 
Augusta or I ain't Betsey. " When you see the smoke look 
out for the fire." Overhaul your " Paradise Lost" for that, 
and when found make a note of it. [She goes) 

Curtain falls. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. Five years air supposed to ha7'e passed. 

A studio at Mrs. Worthington's house. Five or six easels 
zvith sketches and lialf-finislied pictures, chairs, maJd-sticks, 
tables, etc. YkwiA^'^ seated at centre easel painting ; her 
colors, etc., are beside her ; slie ivears a long apron ; her hair 
is put up like a young lady ; her dress long. She is seven- 
teen years old. She altertiately paints and soliloquises. 

Pauline. 
This is the 6th of the month, — a memorable anniversary. 
Five years ago, on this day, I was driven out of my 
mother's house. I was branded with a crime of which I 



152 DOLORES: OR, 

am innocent; and my heartless sister looked at my misery 
without a tear. Yet, why should I say heartless ? Poor, 
deluded Augusta ! she has suffered more than her poor 
lost sister. {Clasps her hands?) Oh, my God! how good 
thou wert ! Scarcely was I driven from my home when thou 
didst provide one for me, and here have I been the object 
of a most tender love for these long five years. With Mrs. 
Worthington's gentle counsel and care, and her brother's 
noble instructions, I am happy and famous already. My 
paintings are sought for, and as soon as the name " Dolores" 
is seen on the stretcher, money pours into my hands. How 
wonderful are the ways of God ! how lovingly he protects 
the innocent ! [Pauses.) And yet I dread the coming 
years, for I know not what they may bring. Living here in 
utter seclusion with my sweet maternal friend, whose pain- 
ful helplessness only heightens her marvellous beauty of 
soul and mind, I know not how the world moves on. I 
have never seen my mother or my sister, and I fear to ask 
for them. Sometimes I long so for them, and for my home ; 
yet I have trusted so entirely to my God, and have met so 
many marks of His love and care, that for the future I will 
have no hope, no wish, save to work out His merciful de- 
signs. Yet, {clasps hands) my God ! grant me this grace, 
to restore the lost jewels, to see Augusta's repentance, and 
to receive my mother's blessing. {She bozvs her head) 

Enter Mrs. Worthington on her rolling-chair; her maid, 
Fanchette, pushes her along. She wears a dressing %vrap- 
per of cashmere ; has her hair, zvhite, smoothed plainly 
under tulle cap ; ivears gold glasses ; is very pale, and 
speaks slozvly. Fanchette rolls her chair near centre of 
stage. Pauline rises at once, goes to her, drazvs little 
table near, places small gong on it, and helps Fanchette 
to adjust her pillows. 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 753 

Pauline, tenderly. 

Why, mother! you gave me quite a start. I had no 
idea you would venture to the studio at this hour. It is a 
sweet pleasure. You may leave, Fanchette ; we will ring 
for you if mother needs anything. 

Mrs. Worthington. 

Dolores, my darling, I have some news for you ; so lay 
aside your brushes and that uncouth apron, and come and 
sit here beside me. 

Pauline, doing so. 

Most willingly will I do so, my mother. Indeed, I have 
been disposed to dream all day, and do not feel like work- 
ing at all. What will Mr. Hubert say? My good master 
does not like me to idle. 

Mrs. Worthington. 

Hubert will say nothing. I shall tell him I took you 
from your easel. (Pauline sits on a loio chair.) Well, 
Dolores, I received a letter to-day from Dresden, where my 
brother, wife, and family have been residing for some years. 
Here it is. Why ! [Looking in her lap) No ! [Rings the 
gong.) I must have left it in my room. 

Enter Fanchette. 

Fanchette. 
Did you ring, ma'am ? 

Mrs. Worthington. 
Yes, Fanchette. On the sofa in my room you will find 
a square envelope, large, with foreign postmarks. Bring 
it to me. [She goes.) 



154 DOLORES; OR, 

Dolores. 

Why, mother, I did not know you had relations living 
abroad. You never mentioned them. 

Enter Fanchette with letter. 

Mrs. Worthington. 

Thank you, Fanchette. Now a glass of fresh water, and 
then I will need nothing till I return to my room, when I 
will ring for you. 

Fanchette. 
Yes, ma'am, [She goes zvitJi glass.) 

Mrs. Worthington, 

In this letter, Dolores, my sister-in-law tells me she will 
return to America ; in fact, will visit me about the 5th 
or 6th of May. What day of the month is this, Dolores ? 

Dolores. 
It is the 6th. Surely you make a mistake. 

Mrs. Worthington looks at letter. 

No. Why, Dolores, this letter has been dreadfully de- 
layed ! Yes, indeed, {examines elate) it has been two months 
on the way, and no doubt my nieces and their mother are 
here now and may visit me this very day. Is it possible 
that I never mentioned them to you, Dolores ? 

Enter Fanchette luith a glass ; fusses aroujul a little, and 

retires. 

Dolores. 

Never, mother; this is the first time I have ever heard 
of their existence ; but they need no description. To know 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 



155 



they are of your blood is quite sufficient for me to love 
them and prize them as I do you, who have been my second 
mother, 

Mrs. Worthington. 

You are too grateful, my child. I can never thank God 
enough for sending you to cheer my lonely hours and 
brighten my helpless state with your sweet attentions. 
Although the dark page of your life that sent you adrift 
in the world is still hidden from me, I almost fear its revela- 
tion lest it take my sunbeam from me. 

Dolores, 

Ah, my mother ! I have been sad of late ; my past rises 
up too vividly sometimes to put aside ; and I think the 
time has come for me to tell you my early trials. But first 
satisfy me about your expected guests. 

Mrs. Worthington. 

They are not my " blood" as you say, but I love them for 
my brother's sake. He has been married only a few years ; 
they went abroad after the wedding, and have remained 
there till now. The lady was a widow with three children, 
as remarkable for her virtue as for her youth and beauty. I 
have never seen them, but the letters received from time to 
time from my brother's wife, as they visited different cities 
of fame in the old world, were full of charming interest 
and happiness. Did I not read some of these to you, 
Dolores ? 

Dolores. 

Yes, I believe you did ; but I never imagined that these 
were the circumstances. I do not think I knew he was 
married. 



156 DOLORES: OR, 

Mrs. Worthington. 

This letter is from Mrs. Nelson ; she speaks of the child- 
ren, — she is sure I will like Nellie, the eldest; that Isabel 
and Grace will try my nerves, they are so lively, but that 
baby Constance will creep right into my heart. They are 
all Claghorns but Constance. 

Dolores, auiazed. 

Nellie! Isabel ! Grace ! All Claghorns ! Mother, mother! 
what do you say? Tell me their mother's first name. 

Mrs. Worthington, looking at letter and at Dolores. 

Why, you are quite agitated, Dolores. What is there in 
this that should make you so startled? Their mother's 
first name is — yes — " Pauline." See, there is her signature : 
" Pauline C. Nelson." (Dolores covers her face.) Dolores, 
my child, what is it? Are you ill ? 

Dolores. 

No, mother, not ill, not ill, but dreadfully agitated. Yet 
it is nothing. I only alarm you. You are quite tremulous, 
mother. [Rises, takes her hand, and gives her water) Here, 
mother, a mouthful of water; I will tell you in a moment. 

Mrs. Worthington drinks. 

My child, you mystify me. Do not be worried about my 
being tremulous, — you know I am nervous, — but tell me. 
This enigmatical conduct distresses me. Will you not, 
Dolores ? 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 



Dolores pauses, and again scats herself. 



157 



Yes, mother, the time has come to tell you everything. 
I think your brother's wife is my aunt, and your nieces are 
my cousins. 

Mrs. Worthington. 
What ! How ! Impossible ! 

Dolores. 

It may not be. But my real name is not Dolores ; it is 
Norton, — Pauline Norton. I am named after my mother's 
youngest sister, Pauline Claghorn. Aunt Pauline had been 
a widow for some years when I saw her last, and of her 
three children, my cousins Nellie, Isabel, and Grace, Nellie 
was my sweetest, dearest, and best-beloved friend. I have 
a sister, Augusta. {^SJie pauses and covers her face.) 



Mrs. Worthington, deeply interested, bends forzvard. 

My child, do not pause; remember I have been shut out 
from the world for twenty years. Seated on this chair, I 
am a prisoner to disease, and know just as much of outside 
life as my lawyer and my servants choose to give me in- 
formation. My brother Hubert, as you know, is an artist 
and a dreamer ; he by choice ignores society, and as few 
care to spend time with an invalid, I am almost unknown 
even to my relations, save by reputation, and the world is 
unknown to me. So if you have fear lest perhaps some 
evil reports of your past life have come to my ears, be en- 
couraged, for it is not the case. 



158 DOLORES: OR, 

Dolores. 

No, I do not fear for myself, for, thank God, I am inno- 
cent. But, mother, my poor sister Augusta, in a moment 
of temptation, became a thief, and stole my mothers 
cherished heirlooms, jewels she prized more than words 
can tell because of their associations. I accidentally found 
out she was the culprit, and promised most solemnly not 
to betray her, hoping that the matter might be adjusted by 
some happy interference. But that very night my mother 
and this cousin Nellie, talking of old days, went to the 
secretary where the jewels were kept and discovered their 
loss and the empty case, and, sad to say, they found my 
sleeve-button and a ribbon which had dropped when, to 
screen Augusta, I put the empty case back ! /was branded 
as the robber, and the disgrace of my blood ! and my proud, 
sensitive, outraged mother drove me at once from her 
heart and home into the darkness and the storm. This 
day, yes, this day five years ago I was a houseless beggar 
in the street ! [Weeps?) 

Mrs. Worthington puts Jiand on head. 

Oh, my Dolores ! and you have hidden this bitter secret 
in your breast. You have never uttered one unkindly 
word of that hasty mother or of that heartless sister, but 
bent silently over your easel these weeks and months and 
years, until, my darling, your name is in every one's mouth. 
The unknown painter Dolores is the admiration of the 
world of art. Nobly have you given to God the talent He 
has bestowed upon you, and nobly have you hidden 
your sad trial. But Dolores, how can it be possible that 
your sister permitted you to be thus punished for her sin ? 
Did she make no effort to save you ? 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROIV. 159 

Dolores, 

Alas, no! I think she was so terrified at my mother's 
anger that words failed her. 

Mrs. Worthington. 
Did all your family refuse to believe you ? 

Dolores. 

My cousin Nellie would not hear to my being called 
guilty. And there was dear, old, kind-hearted nurse, 
Aunt Betsey, who watched over us since our very birth, 
she wanted to believe me innocent, but happened to see the 
worst confirmation of her suspicions. She caught me at the 
secretary when, to shield Augusta, I put the empty jewel- 
case back. Poor old Aunt Betsey ! she had such a comi- 
cal droll way of quoting sayings from every imaginable 
source and giving the wrong authority. I can almost hear 
her now, for she ended off every sentence the same way ; 
that is, when she was in earnest. 

Mrs. Worthington. 

But where did you go when you found your home closed 
against you, Dolores ? 

Dolores. 

When I found myself alone in the street at night, I was 
dazed and bewildered. I knew not where to turn. A storm 
was raging, and I crouched down on a doorstep, holding 
tight to a plaque which I had finished that day at home, 
and which I had mechanically picked up. A poor but 
rascally little street singer actually stripped me of money, 
slippers, and cloak, and no doubt would have gone further, 
when a gruff old policeman made his appearance. The 



l6o DOLORES; OR, 

singer fled, and I was about being marched to the lock-up, 
when I pleaded with all my soul for a refuge for the night. 
I gave him my plaque. I touched his heart, and he took 
me to his humble home, — not indeed to sleep, but as a 
shelter, — and next day he brought me to you, to this calm, 
happy home, where I have found a mother and a friend, a 
master and a father, ever since. In the study of my cher- 
ished art I have been able to forget my sorrows and school 
my soul for the future, whatever it may be. 



Mrs. Worthington, wlio has been deeply interested. 

Be cheered, my child ; the clouds are breaking. I see 
God's tender providence over you, and I feel that ere long 
you will be reunited to that mother and sister whom I trust 
you have long since forgiven, and who, without doubt, have 
suffered terribly the pangs of remorse. 



Knock lieard. Enter Fanchette. 

A carriage, ma'am, has come, and three little misses have 
asked for you. They sa)- they are your nieces. 



Dolores rises and is ao;itated. 



Mrs. Worthington, aside. 

Do not leave, Dolores. If you wish to remain unrecog- 
nized go to your easel, and I will find out all you wish. 
Fanchette, tell them I am an invalid, and bring them up to 
the studio. {Exit.) Do not be agitated, dear. Keep bent 
over your easel and listen. 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. i6l 

Enter Nellie, Grace, Constance, and Isabel, in travelling 
dress. They advance to Mrs. Worthington's chair and 
kiss Jier tenderly and gently. 

Nellie. 

Dearest aunt, mamma wished us to pay our respects to 
you the very first one, so my sisters have come with me to 
do so. This is our first visit since we arrived in America, 
and we wish to tell you how glad we are to have such a 
dear, good aunt, and to bear papa and mamma's greetings. 
They will be here before evening closes. 

Grace. 

We have brought you and Uncle Hubert some very nice 
souvenirs of Germany, and are anxious to get our trunks 
unpacked to show them to you. 

Isabel. 

Mamma and papa have so often spoken of our dear, 
good Aunt Worthington that we almost think we know 
you. Mamma used to read your letters to us, and she told 
us how much we should love you, since you are imprisoned 
on your chair from morning till night, and how careful we 
must be lest we annoy your nerves by being too noisy or 
talking too much. 

Constance, kissing her. 

Mamma said I was to be your pet, and kiss you for her 
and papa. 

Mrs. Worthington. 

My darling nieces, your aunt's heart and home are open 
to you ; she has learned to love you from your mamma's 

II 



1 62 DOLORES; OR, 

letters. Nellie, you must tell me your sisters' names. You 
I know from your mamma's description. 

Nellie introduces tJiein. 

This is Grace, dear aunt, and this is Isabel, and here is 
baby Constance. 

Mrs. Worthington draws them around her chair. 

Well, you know I am your Aunt Worthington, and this 
young lady who is so busy that she cannot speak to you 
is one of my brother Hubert's pupils in painting. (Dolores 
)iods slightly.) Tell me, Nellie, are you glad to get back 
to America? First lay aside your hat and wraps. Fan- 
chette will take them. {Rings for Fanchette. Fanchette 
takes hats, etc., and they all seat thetiiselves, forming pretty 
tableaux. Dolores has back to them) 

Nellie, zvhen all are seated. 

Glad to get back to America ! Yes indeed, dear aunt. 
No length of sojourn abroad could wean me from my 
native land. Europe may boast of grander architecture, 
nobler painting and sculpture, and higher education, but 
many a time I yearned for the autumn glory of our forests, 
the sublime wildness of our mountains, the free joyous 
greetings of American hearts. Mamma and papa both call 
me enthusiastic. 

Isabel. 

Nellie is quite romantic, aunt. When we were going up 
the Rhine she sat on the deck of the steamboat with her 
guitar singing German songs and looking quite sentimental ; 
everybody was around her. 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 163 

Grace. 

And when we were in Switzerland she was forever out 
with tourist parties, watching sunrises and sunsets. 

Constance. 
Auntie, I can say my prayers in German. 

Isabel. 

All of us can say our prayers, and more than our prayers, 
in French, German, and Latin. You know, dear aunt, you 
can learn a good deal by staying a year with people who 
can't talk English. 

Mrs. Worth ington. 

Yes, my darlings, you can learn something from every- 
body. No doubt now, Nellie, your first care will be to look 
up your old friends. 

Nellie. 

Ah, yes, aunt; and there is one dear friend that I love 
as I do my sisters, — my cousin, Pauline Norton. My first 
care shall be to hunt her up. She is my favorite cousin. 

Mrs. Worthington. 
Where does she live ? 

Nellie, a little confused. 

Well, indeed, dear aunt, I cannot say. All I know is I 
am determined to see her soon. 

Mrs. Worthington. 
No doubt you can do so easily. Had she any sisters? 



164 DOLORES; OR, 

Nellie. 

One sister, Augusta, from whom I heard occasionally 
while I was abroad ; but she is much changed now, at least 
to judge from her letters. She tells me she rarely goes 
out, that she has lost all her taste for pleasure and amuse- 
ment ; that sometimes she fears her health is failing. She 
says, too, her mamma, my aunt Eleanor, is but the shadow 
of her former self 

Mrs. Worthington. 

But what of Pauline ? 

Isabel. 

None of us know anything about Cousin Lenie. We 
loved her so dearly, aunt. 

Grace. 

One time when we went to Aunt Eleanor's they told us 
not to mention Pauline's name, — she had gone away. Aunt 
Betsey, that's the old nurse, cries every time you say her 
name. 

Mrs. Worthington. 

Why, that seems strange. Nellie, don't you know any 
cause for this sudden disappearance ? 

Nellie. 

Well, aunt, I think there was some mistake, some dread- 
ful plot or blunder of which my darling cousin was the 
victim. Aunt Eleanor is very hasty, and I think she was 
harsh to Pauline, but she has suffered dreadfully since. We 
all went away, you know, when mamma was married, and I 
never could hear a word of Pauline's whereabouts. Aunt 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 165 

Eleanor they say has grown gray and stooped, and Augusta 
is falHng into dechne. Dear me ! I hope it is all a rumor, 
but I fear it is not. At all events, I am going to search for 
Pauline as soon as we are settled, perhaps before. I can 
tell you more some other time. Now that I remember, in 
one of Augusta's last letters she spoke of a new unknown 
artist here whose pictures are very much admired, especially 
portraits, which she takes from photograph and life. I am 
extravagantly fond of painting and would like to see this 
artist, so would Augusta, and she is only waiting for Aunt 
Eleanor to look better so that she can have her portrait 
painted. No one knows, I believe, whether this artist is 
man or woman. The name " Dolores" is on the corner of 
every painting; but, you know, aunt, that is no criterion. 
No doubt you have heard of this artist, since Uncle Hubert 
is a painter too. {Looks at Dolores.) I see this lady is 
working very skilfully here. 

Mrs. Worthington tries to attract attention from Dolores. 
Yes, dear, I have heard of this artist, and I know it to be 
a lady. So tell your cousin Augusta, if you ever happen 
to hear her mention this wish, to write to Uncle Hubert, 
who can easily procure " Dolores," as she is called, to take 
the portrait. But now, my darlings, I must insist on your 
getting some refreshments. You know I am a helpless 
cripple, {rings bell) but I have an active little pair of feet 
in Fanchette, which serve me as well as my own. {Enter 
Fanchette.) Fanchette, take these dear children to the 
dining-room and prepare a nice lunch for them, and you 
know the rooms that are always ready for visitors. 

Fanchette. 
Yes, ma'am, everything is ready. We anticipated your 
order. 



1 66 DOLORES; OR, 



Mrs. Worthington. 



Go, dear Nellie and children, and return when you have 
refreshed yourselves to my room. {Children all leave?) 
Dolores, roll me over to the easel. (Pauline turns and 
tliroivs herself on knees, and puts head in lap) Patience, 
sweet child; through the fires of sorrow you are passing. 
All will come to the bright end, and very soon. 



Dolores. 

Oh, mother ! I could hardly restrain myself I could 
hardly keep from flinging my arms around Nellie's neck. 
Dear, dear Nellie! So she loves me yet; she does not 
believe the calumny. She has changed very little, but my 
other cousins have changed a great deal. Constance, of 
course, I never saw. I feel bewildered, giddy ; my head 
reels. I have heard so much of my mother and sister, and 
they are ill she says. 

Mrs. Worthington. 

Yes, Dolores. Ah, I must be careful of your name ! 
This strain has been too much for you. You had better 
retire and rest for a few hours. Come, go to my room 
with me, and prepare to take your mother's portrait. I will 
put Hubert on the track to-morrow. The reunion must 
not be delayed. 

Dolores. 

Be cautious, mother, be cautious. I know I need not 
urge it. [She rolls Mrs. Worthington out) How thank- 
ful I am to God ! 

Curtain falls. 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 167 

SCENE II. Tlic Norton Sittiiig-Rooni. An easel, blank 
stretc/icr, chairs, tables, etc. 

Pauline is seated at easel, a little hat on, -with hair and veil 
so disposed as to hide her face. She wears smoked glasses. 
She is preparing her brushes, etc. 

Pauline. 

How I tremble ! After five years' absence I am in my 
own home again. And oh, how changed ! Gloom and 
silence everywhere, — the punishment of my poor sister, 
whom I long to embrace once more, and to show her 
these jewels, {she takes out the case ofjeivelsfrom her pocket, 
opens and contemplates them) which my own earnings 
have brought back again. [She puts back in pocket?) I 
am here as a stranger, a hired artist to take my own 
mother's portrait. I have only seen Augusta at a distance, 
for Mr. Hubert made all the arrangements for the sittings, 
and at a distance she looked subdued and wretched, all her 
vivacity gone, and terrible lines of pain on her face. And 
my mother ! how can I gaze upon her face ! I long to 
embrace her. {She is fixing her palette, etc?) Still, I must 
be calm. I must remember that only by degrees the 
secret may be revealed. " Through the fires of sorrow" 
Dolores will be restored to them, and I must not anticipate 
one moment. Ah, I hear a step. I know it, although 
slower and heavier. Poor Aunt Betsey ! how can I refrain 
from embracing her ! 

Enter Aunt Betsey. Curtsies. 

Miss Augusta bid me tell you, miss, that her mother is 
just ready and will be here in a moment. (Pauline boius 



1 68 DOLORES; OR, 

silently. Aunt Betsey rubs her eyes zvlth corner of apron, 
goes a little distance off and ttirns back. Stands luiping 
eyes.) Beggin' your pardon, miss, I can't help lookin' 
back, your painting things remind me so much of one 
who used to paint in that very corner. She's as good as 
dead now, though she was the lovingest little lamb ever 
born, God bless her. " Hopin' for to see her sickens my 
heart." Overhaul your song-book, and when found make a 
note of it. {Bell.) Ah, I hear Miss Augusta ringing for 
me. [S/ie goes.) 

Pauline. 

Good old Aunt Betsey, overhauling something as usual ! 
How did I keep from throwing my arms around her ! But 
hush ! I hear voices. Oh, my heart, be still ! 

Enter Augusta zvith Mrs. Norton leaning on Iter arm. She 
seems feeble, and wears plain black dress, and cap ; her hair 
is zvhite ; shoulders stooped. Augusta is dressed plainly, 
and looks pale and sad, and speaks in a quiet tone. Au- 
gusta seats her mother. Dolores rises and boivs. 



Augusta. 

The artist Dolores, I presume ? (Dolores bows.) I 
am glad you are ready to begin. I told Betsey to show 
you up at once, as mother, although rather brighter this 
morning, is never sure of herself very long, and may grow 
weak before an hour passes. 



Mrs. Norton, in a sort of zvhisper. 
Oh, Augusta ! don't let her sit there, — her corner. 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 



Augusta. 



169 



Why, mother, there is no better light in the room. 
Don't think of that, mother; think of wearing your pleas- 
antest face and sweetest smile. For you know the portrait 
is to be the masterpiece of the house. [Bows to Dolores.) 

Dolores scats Jicrsclf. 

I shall try to make it so, Miss Norton. [To Mrs. 
Norton.) Place yourself in a natural position, madam. 
Your head back a little ; a little more to one side. There. 
Now I will begin to sketch. Will you allow me to tell 
you a story while I proceed ? It may interest you, and will 
take away the strain which continuance in one position 
may cause. 

Mrs. Norton. 

Most willingly. I shall only be too glad to take my mind 
off memories which your attitude and occupation suggest 
so vividly. 

Augusta getting some needlezvork. Mrs. Norton folds her 
hands and gases attentively at the artist" s fingers. 

Augusta. 

Pray begin the story. I feel quite sure that with your 
soothing, gentle voice mamma will listen with much atten- 
tion, and will wear her happiest expression. 

Dolores sketches, etc., zvhile she speaks. 

It was in May, between five and six years ago. The 
night was dark and stormy. I was passing along the 
street, when I saw a little girl crouched down by a doorstep 
to avoid the storm. 



I70 DOLORES; OR, 

Augusta, starting, and dropping work. 
How was she dressed ? 

Dolores. 

She wore a blue merino dress and a transparent white 
apron. Her curls were tied by a streamer of blue ribbon ; 
and, although she was wrapped in a shawl, I could see she 
held a painted plaque tightly in her hands. 

Augusta, agitated. 
Oh, dear mademoiselle ! Did you speak to her ? 

Dolores quietly to Mrs. Norton, zvho tlu^ows her head hack. 

Do not change your position, madam. There. May I 
continue ? 

Augusta, more calmly, resnmiiig zvork. 

Do, I implore you. 

Dolores. 

Just then a sharp little girl, but with a beautiful voice, — in 
fact, one of these regular street singers and pickpockets, — 
appeared on the scene, and actually succeeded in stripping 
the poor child of shoes, stockings, apron, and cloak, and 
no doubt would have gone further only a policeman walked 
up, and the singer made off with her booty, while the de- 
fenceless little child sank weeping to the ground, utterly 
overcome. 

Mrs. Norton, pressing her liand on lie art. 

Oh, miss! you are causing me intense suffering; yet do 
not stop, I implore you. 



THROUGH THE FHiES OF SORROW 



171 



Dolores, rising. 

Suffering ! Certainly I will stop. I shall cease the recital 
this moment. Your expression must not be one of suffering. 

Both. 
No, no ! Go on ! go on ! 

Augusta. 

I had a little sister once, whose disappearance has broken 
my heart and my mother's ; and there is a striking coinci- 
dence in the time of your story and the appearance of the 
child. Can you wonder at our interest? 

Dolores. 

No, I do not wonder. Well, I shall resume. The child 
was taken in charge by the good-hearted policeman, who 
gave her a bed under his roof, and the next day brought 
her to a benevolent lady, Mrs. Worthington, who, although 
a confirmed invalid, received her into her heart and home, 
where, under the care of her brother, an artist, she has 
spent five years studying painting, and although the world 
knows her under the name of Dolores, her real name is 
still unknown. 

Augusta, rising 2ip e.xcitedly. 

No, it is not unknown ! Oh, gracious heaven ! I can be 
deceived no longer. It is Pauline ! it is my sister's voice ! 
{She rushes towards her ; takes off the glasses, tears off the hat 
and veil?) Oh, Pauline ! it is indeed you. Mother, come ! 
Do you not see her ? {She kisses her.) 

Mrs. Norton, rising, stretches ont her arms. 
My child ! I felt it was you, but I dared not speak. Come 



1/2 DOLORES; OR, 

to my arms ! (Pauline goes to her vwtJiers embrace. Afezu 
inojuents' pause, in ivliicJi all are excited.) 

Augusta, on her knees. 

Mother! sister! hear me. I can bear my awful secret 
no longer, /am the thief, the wretch, the miserable one 
who stole those jewels and then falsely acted the part of 
the innocent, and allowed the storm of your wrath, mother, 
to fall on this guileless head. Oh! if you only both knew 
how much I have suffered you would not heap your con- 
tempt on me, — you would not withhold your forgiveness. 
Mother, can you forgive me? 

Mrs. Norton, her arm around Pauline. 

Augusta, remorse has subdued me. I can forgive your 
guilt nozv, when I remember I spurned this poor child here 
in her innocence. I can forgive you, for I have learned a 
lesson of humility, and can bear to hear that my child is 
indeed a thief, although not the child accused before the 
world. 

Augusta, weeping. 

I deserve it! I deserve it all! Pauline, can you forgive 
me ? No, it is impossible. 

Pauline, putting her arm around her. 

Augusta, I forgave you long ago. I knew that the blind- 
ness which vanity cast over your eyes would soon be cured, 
and while I struggled as a poor artist, it was only with the 
hope that I might one day repurchase the jewels, restore 
them to dear mamma, and see your repentance. This has 
been accomplished through the fires of sorrow. {Raises 
her 7ip.) And since God has united us once more, let the 



THROUGH THE FT RES OF SORROW. 



173 



past be forgotten, and let us live but to love one another. 
See, here are the jewels! once more ours. 

Mrs. Norton taking tJiein, looks at them and covers her face ; 
kisses thcni ; stands betzveen Augusta and Pauline. 

Mrs. Norton to Pauline. 

Noble, generous child ! Augusta, for your sister's sake 
I can no longer hesitate. {Kisses her.) Here I seal your 
forgiveness. We have both suffered, bitter, bitter suffer- 
ings, but the clouds have broken, and I trust there are many 
years of joy before us. I need add nothing, Augusta, to 
the terrible lesson you have received, — such is the reward 
of vanity ! May God preserve you from its temptations in 
future! for no degradation is too low : vanity, robbery, false- 
hood, — a living falsehood ! Ask God's pardon, my poor 
child, and act so in the future that we may love you as 
much as we have been disappointed in you. 

Augusta. 

Oh, I deserve it all ! Mother ! Pauline ! words cannot 
tell my agonies of remorse, my sleepless nights, my sunless 
days, my fruitless inquiries for my sister, my weakness 
when I felt it all should be confessed. Oh ! my life shall be 
one long endeavor to brighten the hearts of those I have 
griexed so much ; and time will prove that I too have been 
chastened by the fires of sorrow. [She leans her head on 
her mother s sJioulder, Pauline on the other side.) 

Enter Aunt Betsey. Throivs np her hands. 

Glory to the Heavens as is a-smilin' down this day if it 
isn't Miss Lenie ! Oh, Miss Lenie darlin' ! it was I as knew 
you and thought of yourself sittin' in that corner when I 



174 DOLORES; OR, 

came in. Don't you mind I couldn't take my eyes off you, 
Miss Lenie ? 

Pauline goes to her and kisses her. 

Indeed I do, Aunt Betsey ; and I could hardly keep from 
running and throwing my arms around you when I saw 
you. I'll make up for it, however. 

Enter Nellie Clagiiokn, Isabel, Grace, and Constance. 

Nellie, running to Pauline. 

Where is the masked Dolores ? Where is the hidden 
artist? Oh, you dear Pauline! I have found you out at 
last. (^Embraces.) 

Pauline, smiling. 

My dear Nellie ! didn't I look demure when I listened 
to you telling your Aunt Worthington all about your 
" Cousin Pauline" ? 

Nellie, putting arm around her. 

You are a confirmed rogue! How shall I ever forgive 
you for listening to my good opinion of you ! Grace, Isabel, 
don't you recognize your cousin Lenie ? 

Pauline, embracing tJieni. 

I can scarcely see much change in them. Do you see 
much in me ? 

Grace. 

Oh, yes ; I see a great deal. 

Isabel. 
Pauline has the same voice. 



THROUGH THE FIRES OF SORROW. 175 

Nellie. 
And little Constance never knew you before. 

Pauline caresses Constance. 

I do not know how I kept from hugging this little one 
when I saw her with you. 

Nellie. 

Nor do I ; but you sat over at your easel, think of it, 
Aunt Eleanor and Augusta ! without turning round, almost 
without moving, and only to-day Aunt VVorthington told 
me of the plot that she and Uncle Hubert laid to bring 
about the reunion. She came down in her chair, which 
we put into the carriage, and she can be easily rolled in 
through the long window on the porch. Ah, there she 
comes ! 

Enter Mrs. Worthington, rolled in by Fanchette. 

Pauline goes toivards her. 

Mother, here is mamma and my sister Augusta. VVe 
are all happy once more. How good God is to us ! (Mrs. 
Norton and Augusta embrace her.) 

Mrs. Worthington. 

Dolores, my darling, I could not remain in my room 
while my thoughts were with you and my mind was pic- 
turing this scene. I have done to-day what I never did 
before, — ventured out of my proper sanctum. It was so 
sweet to realize your happiness. Yet just as sad, for I 
shall lose my sunbeam. 



iy6 DOLORES. 

Mrs. Norton. 

No, dear Mrs. Worthington, she shall still be a sunbeam 
to you. You are no stranger to us. My sister Pauline 
has told me long ere this of her dear, patient sister-in-law, 
and Mr. Nelson, who loves you so much, must unite with 
us in making you part of our little family. I can never 
forget that you have been a mother to my darling child, — 
so injured and so forgiving. My heart is too full. The 
joy of this happy hour has almost taken the sting out of 
these long, sad years. Each of us has been chastened, 
and now, with souls lifted in high and holy purpose, let us 
carry our burdens together down the western slope of life, 
rejoicing in our sweet child, the most precious of our jewels, 
who has been restored to us with double worth and lustre, 
— the "Pauline" of our hearts, the "Dolores" of our ad- 
miration, all radiant 

" Through the fiies of Sorrow." 

Aunt Betsey, lifting her Jiands up and coming forward. 

Glory to the smilin' Heavens this night! My heart is 
swelled up like the ocean with joy, and me mouth is too 
small to carry it up and put it through, so that I'm afeard, 
ladies, that I'll swoon into the other world, " where the 
wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest." 
Overhaul your Webster's Dictionary for that, and when 
found draw the curtain and say good-night. 

Cnrtain falls. 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 

AN EPISODE IN THE REIGN OF NAPOLEON I. 

DRAMATIZED, WITH ADDITIONS, FROM MRS. A. H. DORSEY'S TRANSLATION 
FROM THE FRENCH. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Napoleon, Emperor. 

Josephine, Empress. 

HoRTENSE, Josephine's daughter, and wife of Louis Bonaparte. 

Ladies of Honor : 

Mlle. Elise. 

Mlle. Mathilde. 

Mlle. Lucille. 
Ladies in Waiting : 

Lady de Sainville. 

Lady de Lavalette. 

Lady de Brignot. 
Marie. 

Madame Lajolais, her mother. 
General Lajolais, her father. 
Chorien, prison-keeper of the BicStre. 
Susette, his daughter. 
Guards. 
Peasant Family : 

Dame Brillot. 

Jeannette Brillot, 

Nanette Brillot, \ her daughters. 

Marthe Brillot, 



177 



MARIE. 

SCENE I. Interior of cottage near Strasburg. Plain deal 
table; rag carpet; ivooden cJiairs ; spinning-ivhcel ; 
basket ivith large hanks of yam, and stockings half knit, 
etc. 

Curtain rises. 

Marthe Brillot seated at zvheel. She arranges it and 
begins to spin ; while the tvheel turns she sings : [Piano 
accompanies softly.) 

" Chequered and sad may our destinies be, 
Sorrow and sickness may cleave unto thee, 
Whate'er^may daunt us, our motto shall be, 
Loyal je serai durant ma vie." (Repeat.) 

Speaks. 

Our destinies are truly chequered and sad. These are 
strange times. Napoleon is great, to be sure, but there are 
graves in the hearts of his people, and many a bright- 
browed son and brother has gone from our midst, and we 
listen in vain for the manly step on the threshold. That is 
what the song says : {Sings again.) 

" Parted and silenced beneath the old tree. 
Never those voices shall speak unto thee, 
Though in each true heart the motto shall be, 
Loyal je serai durant ma vie." [Repeat.) 

17S 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 



179 



Speaks. 

Still it is all for France! Beautiful France! and we 
glory in our country's fame. I wonder how those dreadful 
plots are laid that aim at the emperor's life. {SJic stops 
working.) There is another discovered at Paris, they say. 
How I wish Jeannette and Nanette would come ! They 
have been to the Bicetre, and Susette has always something 
thrilling to tell. I shouldn't like to be Susette, daughter 
of the prison-keeper, in these terrible times. Nothing but 
conspiracies, plots, assassinations. Holy Virgins, isn't it 
dreadful I 

Dame's voice calls ojit from behind. 

Marthe, you are idling ; I haven't heard a sound from the 
wheel these five minutes. 

Marthe. 

Yes, ma mere, I'll begin again. {She turns wJieel and 
sings.) 

" Little bird, little bird, in the bare tree, 
Only the wintry blast sigheth to thee ; 
Where are the voices that say in their glee, 
Loyal je serai durant ma vie ?" 

Listen ! here come Nanette and Jeannette. Time for 
them ! Now for the news. 

E)iter Nanette and Jeannette. Peasant dresses, basket and 
cloaks, tvith hood drazvn over heads. Marthe rises, takes 
basket ; busies herself around room, etc. "The other tzvo 
take off cloaks. 



l8o THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 

Marthe. 
Well, well, home at last ! Dear me, how tired you look ! 
Put down your baskets, and be seated. 

Jeannette. 

Tired ! indeed we are ! and the baskets are heavy. But 
we have some wonderful news. Where's mother ? 

Marthe. 
Didn't you see her in the kitchen ? 

Nanette. 
No. {^Calls}, Mother! mother! 

Dame commg, they run to assist her. 

Well, children ? here, here. What's the matter ? [Scats 
herself on an old chair and begins to ktnt) 

Nanette. 
Wonderful news, mother ! wonderful news ! 

Jeannette. 

We overheard some of the officers at the Bicetre talking 
about it. Indeed, all Paris talks of nothing else. 

Marthe. 
Why can't you tell us, then ? 

Dame, raising her hands. 

Heaven be praised ! I hope it's no more of those bloody 
plots against the grand Napoleon. 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. i8i 

Nanette. 
Wonderful news, mother ! 

Marthe. 

Out with it, tease. Nanette, I'm afraid you are only- 
jesting. 

Nanette. 

Jesting! Yes, I am jesting in calling it news, when in 
reality it's a miracle, Marthe. 

Marthe. 

Don't be ill-natured, Nanette. Come, Jeannette, we're 
perishing to hear. It can't be the river is on fire ! 

Jeannette. 

Well, do be quiet for a moment and give me a chance. 
We were standing near the gate of the Bicetre talking to 
Susette when the guards were changed ; after the sign and 
countersign were whispered, two or three officers got talk- 
ing very near us, and Susette made us cease and listen, for 
she said it was the latest bit of Paris gossip, 

Marthe. 
Well, will it ever come out ? 

Jeannette. 

If you ever give me the chance. I'll tell you as near as 
I remember the exact words of the officer. Said he, 
" Comrades, let me tell you a piece of news for my own 
relief, for I'm so full of it, it's choking me. The Emperor 
has pardoned Polignac." 



1 82 THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 

Nanette, patronizingly . 

That was the man who was sentenced to death for com- 
pHcity in the assassination plot to destroy the Emperor, 
you know. 

Jeannette. 

Nanette, who is telhng this story ? Of course they know. 

Marthe. 
Yes, yes, we know. Go on. 

Dame. 
Don't be quarrelling, my dears. 

Jeannette. 

No, ma mere. Well, the whole of them cried out, " Give 
us the story!" True enough, that is a miracle, and the 
officer that first spoke began. It is a romance and a 
miracle together, and as I happened to see everything with 
my own eyes and hear everything with my own ears, you 
may take it as a fact. " Begin ! begin !" said they all ; and 
so the lieutenant settled himself with the air of one who 

had something of startling interest to impart, and said 

Now Nanette, if I go wrong you help me, 

Nanette. 
Very well. 

D'AME. 

Nanette, go eat your supper. {Exit Nanette.) 

Jeannette, 
" You must know, comrades," said he, " that yesterday I 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 183 

was on guard at St. Cloud, and having nothing to amuse 
me in the little green pavilion I had gone into after my 
tour of inspection to rest myself, I thought I'd look through 
the lattice-work to see if anything was passing that might 
divert my eJiniii. I had read the papers, which were full 
of the late attempt on the Emperor's life ; the same thing 
over and over again ; as if every soul in Paris had not 
already heard the ins and outs of the affair. My resources 
were exhausted. So I peeped through the vines, and the 
very first object I saw was the Princess Louis flitting about 
her mother's flower-garden watering the plants. It was a 
sight worth seeing. She looked so beautiful in her white 
muslin dress and delicate ribbons, with her long hair twisted 
together at the back of her head and falling in loose waves 
over her shoulders. While I was watching her, thinking 
what a happy man Prince Louis ought to be, a quick foot- 
step sounded on the smooth gravelled walk. The Princess 
lifted her head from a bunch of carnations she was bending 
over, and there stood the Emperor^ 

Dame. 

Dear me ! I hope he did not speak, harshly to dear 
Madame Louis. She is an angel, they say. 

Marthe. 
Ah, mother ! do let us hear the rest. 

Nanette. 

You forgot to say the Emperor entered unannounced, as 
usual. 

Jeannette. 
So I did. " Well, he turned abruptly and said, ' What are 



1 84 THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 

you doing here, Hortense ?' ' You see, Sire,' said Madame 
Louis, into whose cheeks the sudden surprise had sent a 
vivid bloom, as she held the watering-pot, yet half full, 
towards him. ' What are they doing in your mother's apart- 
ments ?' the Emperor then asked, in his quick way. ' They 
are weeping there,' said Madame Louis, her own beautiful 
eyes brimming over with tears. ' They are weeping !' re- 
peated the Emperor; then, without waiting to inquire the 
cause of what seemed to him a tragic amusement, he has- 
tened away to the apartments of the Empress. I was as 
curious as the Emperor, and, being a member of the Empress's 
household while on duty at St. Cloud, my duties giving me 
admittance to all parts of the palace, I was not slow in fol- 
lowing him there, where, mixing with the other people who 
were passing up and down, in and out, I arrived at the door 
of the Empress's boudoir just an instant after the Emperor 
had entered, leaving it open behind him. He was standing 
near the centre of the room, and a woman was kneeling at 
his feet, weeping bitterly, and making a vain effort to ar- 
ticulate her griefs. It was Madame Polignac, pleading for 
her husband, who was sentenced to death the other day for 
complicity in that assassination affair. You know the Em- 
peror must have been taken by surprise; no doubt it was one 
of those merciful little plots for which the good Empress 
is famous, for he stood looking down on the sorrowful face 
lifted to his and streaming with tears, just where she 
had thrown herself at his feet when he entered the apart- 
ment. There was an inscrutable expression on his counte- 
nance, half sorrowful, half angry, and altogether stern, while 
the other ladies present, including the Empress, leaned for- 
ward, their hands folded in mute appeal, and their tears 
pleading for mercy towards the unfortunate woman. ' But 
what amazes me, madame,' at last said the Emperor, with an 
air of coldness that his voice belied, ' is to find your hus- 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 185 

band mixed up in so odious an affair. Did he entirely 
forget that we were classmates at the Military School ?' " 

Marthe. 

What a wretch that Polignac must have been, to attempt 
the life of his own school-mate ! But go on. 

Jeannette. 

" Well," the lieutenant continued, " I could not hear what 
Madame Polignac said, because her voice was choked with 
tears and sobs. I think, though, from a word or two I 
caught, she was trying to convince the Emperor that her 
husband, so far from knowing anything connected with 
this conspiracy against his life, was in utter ignorance of it 
up to the time the attempt was made, and, although her 
sentences were disconnected and interrupted by sobs, the 
reality of her grief made it eloquent, and lent force to what 
she said. Every eye was fixed on the Emperor's counte- 
nance, and it became evident, from a certain relaxation of 
its stern lines, that his heart was touched by the unfortunate 
woman's appeal and the imploring faces around him, that 
were in themselves so many prayers for mercy. ' Enough, 
enough, madame !' at last said the Emperor, raising her from 
his feet. ' As your husband did not wish to destroy my 
life, I can forgive him the rest. Hasten to him, madame, 
and tell him that his old comrade pardons him.' " 

Marthe. 
That was grand on the part of the Emperor. 

Dame. 
It was that. Mav heaven reward him ! 



1 86 THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 

Nanette. 

If you had heard the men. " Long Hve the Emperor i' 
cried they with one burst. 

Jeannette. 

And the lieutenant invited them off to drink the Em- 
peror's health, and they started with a good will. But the 
sad news is to come now. You tell them that part, Nanette. 

Nanette. 

Well, we stood talking of this to Susette, when suddenly 
a carriage, drawn by four horses, its curtains closely but- 
toned down, and a guard of gendarmes on each side, rolled 
up with a great clatter before the gloomy iron-ribbed por- 
tals of the prison. The official, who I suppose accompa- 
nied them all the way from Strasburg, dismounted, handed 
a paper to Susette's father, who had come with his huge 
bunch of keys hanging to his leather girdle, and in a 
minute the ponderous gate was thrown open, and the cor- 
tege entered. Curiosity impelled us to go too. So, with 
Susette for guide, we stepped in a side-door and had full 
view of the saddest scene I ever witnessed. 

Jeannette, covering her face. 
I could weep now when I think of it. 

Nanette. 

The carriage was opened, and two ladies alighted and 
stood trembling behind the grating. Their dress was rich 
and handsome, but covered with dust, and it was quite 
evident that their arrest and departure from home gave 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 



187 



them no time to prepare for .their journey. Their heads 
were bare. One had shining tresses of chestnut hair, the 
other long, loose waves of soft light brown. They both 
were shuddering with terror when, at a sign from the 
guards, they were hurried into a room and disappeared 
from our sight. 

Marthe. 

And were you obliged to leave without hearing more 
about them ? 

Nanette. 

Yes, we were. Susette told us they would be kept 
there for two or three hours, until it came their turn to be 
settled, 

Jeannette. 

I was longing to stay and see the result, for the lovely, 
terrified face of the dear young mademoiselle and the sad, 
marble countenance of madame will haunt me forever. 

Dame. 

Praised be God you left the horrible place, dear girls, 
and came to your humble home ! It is bad these times to 
be rich. Come, put by your baskets and get at your work. 

Nanette, risim;. 

Yes, mother ; but you will surely permit us to run over 
there to-morrow ? Susette promised to tell us all that 
happens. 

Marthe. 

And I think I will go with you. Jeannette, you remain 
home and keep mother from being lonely. 



1 88 THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 

Dame. 

You'll do no such thing. I'll not have my daughters 
gadding round the prison listening to these kind of tales. 
It never does any good. No, you'll all stay at home. It 
would break my old heart if anything would happen you. 

Nanette. 

Well, mother, don't fret ; it shall be so. Don't fret, we 
won't go. But really, they have excited a lively sympathy 
in me. Perhaps we will hear something of them again. 
Come, mother, let us go up-stairs ; you have got quite ner- 
vous over our narrative. 

Dame. 

Well, Nanette, I will indeed, or that horrid prison will 
be in my head all night. Now, girls, get at your work. 

Marthe. 

Yes, mother, we will. Come, Jeannette, you hold this 
yarn for me. (Jeannette holds yarn, and Marthe winds) 

Ci/rtain closes. 



SCENE II. The Prison of the Bicetre. Stage is dark; 
guards are seen, some standing, some pacing to and fro ; 
a bench in centre of stage. 

Prison-Keeper is pacing to and fro across stage with hands 
behind back. He calls out in a ro7tgh, loud voice, zvithoiit 
ceasing to walk or tnrning his head. 

Guai"ds ! bring forward the last prisoner. (Guards leave 
and return. First Guard zvalks first, holding spear and 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 189 

lantern. A Guard is on each side of Marie and Madame 
Lajolais. Both are deeply dejected, and Marie has both 
arms around her mother, and her head drooping.) 

First Guard, pausing in centre of stage, zvhere Prison- 
Keeper stops, and holding up lantern to their faces. 

Here are two ! We expected only one. Lift up your 
head, youngster. Come, I must see that all's right before 
I turn you over to our hospitable prison-keeper. 

Prison-Keeper touches Madame Lajolais oji shoulder, 

saying, 

You must come with me, madame. {Both step forward, 
but he gives Marie a push back, saying^ Not you ! You 
are free ! I have no business with you. 

Marie, drawino- her mother closer. 
I will not leave my mother. 

Prison-Keeper. 
I think you will. I have no orders to imprison you. 

Madame Lajolais, pressing her to her breast imploringly. 
Oh, do not separate me from my daughter! 

Prison-Keeper. 
I must obey orders, madame. 

Madame Lajolais, passionately. 

It is impossible that you should have orders to separate 
mother and child. 



190 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 



Prison-Keeper, roughly. 

Impossible ? What nonsense ! We have no kinships 
in the prison of the Bicetre. It is possible, and I tell you 
that I have orders ; so follow me without the girl. 

Marie. 

You shall kill me before I let you separate me from my 
mamma ! {She thi'ozvs herself on her knees, and clasps her 
niotJier ronnd ihe zvaist.) 

Prison-Keeper seizes her arm and shakes it roughly. 

Do you know that in this place we have a way to 
compel people" to obey by force, if they refuse to obey 
quietly ? 

Madame Lajolais, in tones of anguish. 
But if you take her from me, where will she go ? 

Prison-Keeper. 

That's none of my business, and I have enough to do 
without troubling myself with what don't concern me. 
You didn't ask my opinion about assassinating the Em- 
peror, did you ? 

Marie, rising to her feet, and tossing back her lie ad indig- 
nantly. 

My mother is innocent ! 

Prison-Keeper. 

"Your mother is innocent," is she? It may be so, but 
it does not concern me either ; that is a question for the 
tribunal of justice to decide. What a man does his wife 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 



191 



is apt to have a hand in, and that your father is guilty is 
proved by the fact that, eight days ago, he and the other 
conspirators were sentenced to death. {Both start in liorror 
and surprise) Come, have courage, madame, and obey 
with a good grace. I do not wish to use violence, but I 
must obey my orders, which are to place in solitary con- 
finement the wife of General Lajolais. 

Marie. 
Oh, my mamma, how can I leave you! 

Madame Lajolais. 

My poor Marie ! [Raisitig eyes to Heaven) Oh ! Mother, 
to whom I consecrated her at her birth, protect her in this 
dark and bitter hour! Help of Christians, pity us ! 

Prison-Keeper. 

But only the zvife of General Lajolais ; so you see it is 
as plain as day, mademoiselle, that you must go. 

First Guard. 

Take your prisoner and be done with it, jailer. My 
business is waiting, and there's been nonsense enough. 

Madame Lajolais. 
Oh ! one moment ! just one moment ! 

First Guard, roughly. 

Not another one. Guards, do your duty. (Guards come 
forward.) 



192 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 



Marie clasps her mother s neck, crying. 

Oh, mercy! mercy! do not take my mamma from me ! I 
have nowhere to go in this strange city. I am only a poor 
child without friends. Oh, please let me go into the same 
cell with my mamma! Who will know it, who will see it? 
For the love of Christ's Blessed Mother, let me stay ! 

Madame. 

Go, my poor child. There is One above who is the help 
of the desolate. A prison-cell is no place for you, my 
child ; go now. Indeed, you could not breathe there; it is 
so close and gloomy. 

Marie. 

But you will be there, and yet you tell me to go. Oh, 
I cannot ! will not ! {Slie clasps her closer.) 

First Guard. 

This is folly. Come, let us end it. {Two Guards seize her 
by the arms, the other two take off Madame Lajolais.) 

Marie shrieks. 

Mamma ! mamma ! Oh, my mamma! {She faints. They 
drag her tozvards a bench, and, leaving her there on the floor, 
depart. Strains of sad imisic. A pause. The lights are 
turned up. Enter Susette, zvho goes towards her kindly, 
nibs her hands and zvrists, and puts her arm around her. 
Marie opens eyes, stares around, gets up and rushes over to 
where the guards disappeared, and screams aloud)) Oh, give 
me my mamma ! It is frightful to keep us apart. Oh ! 
where is my poor mamma? Oh, take me to her, then you 
may kill me! 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 



SUSETTE. 



193 



Mademoiselle, do not call so loud or they will drive 
you farther away. 

Marie, frantically. 

I don't care ! I'm not afraid of them ! I'm only calling 
my mother, whom they have got shut up in that horrid 
place. I want her, I tell you, and I'll make so much noise 
that they will shut me up in the prison too. 

SusETTE ivipes her eyes. 
Yes, but not with your mother. 

Marie, looking at her, a?id advancing towards her. 
Oh ! are you in trouble too ? 

SuSETTE. 

No ; but I'm sorry for you. 

Marie. 

Ah, you do not know how I am to be pitied! [Going 
and sitting on a bench.) Those cruel men in there have 
just torn me from my mother. But that is not all ; there's 
something more horrible still, that makes me almost drop 
dead to think of it. 

SuSETTE. 

It must be hard to have such sorrows, and you so young. 
The good God will surely pity you. But what is the other 
grief? 

13 



194 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 



Marie. 



I have a father, and those cruel men in there told us that 
he is sentenced to die. Oh, think of it ! {SJie buries her 
head hi Susette's lap, who zveeps also. A pause. Marie 
raises her head) Have you a mother ? (Susette is iveep- 
ing, but nods affirmatively) And a father also ? (Susette 
nods.) And you are not separated from them ! You can 
see them whenever you please ! embrace them morning 
and evening ! Oh, how happy you must be ! Tell me 
your name. 

Susette. 
Susette, at your service. 

Marie. 
What is your father ? Is he a merchant ? 

Susette. 
No, mademoiselle ; he is Keeper of the Prisons. 

Marie, starting. 

Keeper of the Prisons ! Then he must see my mother 
every day ! he can speak to her, he can bring me news of 
her, and tell her of all the tears I have shed for her ! But 
no ; he must not do that, it would grieve her too much. 
(Susette shakes her head sadly) Why do you shake your 
head so sadly, Susette ? 

Susette. 

Because I heard no one is allowed to see madame, — I 
heard my father say so, — nor even speak to her. But it is 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 195 

not his fault, mademoiselle ; indeed, my father is not a bad 
man. {Bell rings violently. Marie starts.) That rings for 
the prisoners to take their meals. 



Marie. 
And my mother too ? 

SUSETTE, 

Oh, do not be uneasy ! Sure they would not forget her, 

Marie, sadly. 

My poor mamma ! she is so delicate ! Where are her ser- 
vants, her table so well served, and her little Marie at her 
side to persuade her to eat ! Oh, holy Virgin ! help my 
mamma. She belongs to thy Confraternity, and out of love 
for thee always kept thy shrine beautiful with flowers. 

SusETTE, holding rosary. 

I will offer my Aves for her this evening. But you have 
not eaten anything all day; you look pale and weak, let me 
run and bring you some soup. 

Marie. 

I am not hungry. I could not eat if I tried, but I thank 
you. 

SuSETTE. 

I believe you ; but then you ought to try and eat just a 
few mouthfuls of soup. 



196 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 



Marie. 



Eat ! when my dear mamma is in prison and perhaps I 
shall never see my good father again ! Oh, no. no ! 

SUSETTE. 

But, mademoiselle, if you do not eat you will die. 

Marie. 

And do you think I could live with such grief in my 
heart even if I do eat? Oh, you are very good, but you 
don't know what a dreadful thing it is to be lonely like 
me ! {^Slie buries her face in her hands. A panse. And then 
says) Susette, is the Emperor forgiving or is he stern? 

SusETTE, with enthusiasm. 

Ah, mademoiselle ! the Emperor is nobly magnanimous. 
Did you not hear how he pardoned Polignac ? 

Marie. 
No; and did he do so? 

Susette. 

Yes ; but it was through the kind plotting of the beautiful 
Empress and her lovely daughter, who contrived a cute 
little plot, by which Madame Polignac found the Emperor 
in Josephine's apartments, and, throwing herself at his feet, 
would not leave until her husband was forgiven. Ah, 
mademoiselle, it was grand of the Emperor to forgive such 
a traitor! (Marie pauses, walks away in deep thought, and 
returns?) 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. ^gy 

Marie. 
Susette, a little while ago you offered me a plate of soup. 

SuSETTE, rising; says, eagerly, 
And will you have some if I bring it? 

Marie, 
Yes, ma chere, and a piece of bread, if you please. 

Susette. 

And some meat? I will bring you all my dinner. [She 
departs, but soon returns zvitJi cc little ivaiter, on xvhicli is a 
bowl, glass, plate of bread and meat. Marie sips bowl, drinks 
water ; puts bread and meat in kercliief. Susette looks on 
with i7iterest.) 

Marie. 

I wish I could reward your kindness to an unfortunate 
girl. 

Susette. 

Mademoiselle, to give food to the hungry is not a thing 
to seek a reward. 

Marie, unclasping a chain and trying to force it on Susette. 

You are right. It is not your bread or your drink that 
I want to pay you for, but your goodness, your kind, gentle 
words. Come, now, take this chain to remember me by, 
and wear it for my sake. (Susette refuses)) 

Rough voice from behind. 
Susette ! Susette ! 



198 THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 

SusETTE, rising. 
I am coming, father. 

Marie, sadly. 
You might not refuse it. 

SusETTE takes her hand and kisses it. 

I do not refuse it because I wish to, or to give you pain, 
mademoiselle; but I dare not, indeed, I dare not accept it. 

Marie. 
I willingly ate and drank all yon gave me. 

SuSETTE. 

That is very different ; they were to eat. That was very 
different indeed. 

Voice again, angrily. 

Susette ! Susette ! (Susette throzvs a kiss to Marie, 
and Imrriedly departs.) 

Marie pauses, looks after her, starts up. 

All alone! all alone in this terrible world! Oh, this 
dreary place ! Are my senses leaving me ? Oh, my 
darling mother, where are you ? My brave, noble father, 
why do you not hear me ? All alone in a great wicked 
city, without friends, without shelter. What shall I do ? 
I shall go to the Emperor's feet ! I shall kneel there like 
Madame Polignac, and shall not depart till he pardons 
my father and mother. But how shall I find the way? 
Who is to aid me ? Ah ! I will die of terror. But God 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 



199 



sees me, and our Blessed Lady will surely pity the poor, 
lonely child ! {SJie kneels.) Oh ! holy one, be my mother ! 
Behold how lonely and desolate I am ! I do not even 
know how to tell my case ! Pity me and help me from 
thy throne in Heaven ! [S/ic hoivs her head) 

Curtain falls. 



SCENE III. Garden of St. Cloud. Ladies. Mathilde, 
Lucille, and Elise stand and cojiverse, or sit on rustic 

benches. 

Lucille. 

There has been a great show at St. Cloud to-day; the 
Emperor's magnanimity in pardoning Polignac has literally 
brought Paris to his feet. 

Elise. 

Yes, many of the old noblesse who held proudly aloof 
from him before, and some of the legitimists, think the act 
so kingly a one, that they have come out of their retreats 
in all the state of their old-fashioned rusty court dresses 
of the time of Marie Antoinette to make their stately bows 
and courtesies to the " Corsican soldier and his Creole wife," 
as they please to designate the grand Napoleon and my 
beautiful mistress, Madame Josephine. 

Mathilde. 

And they have gone away thinking in their hearts that 
the imperial dignity did not belong alone, as a divine right, 
to kings. 

Lucille. 

Yes, and awed in spite of themselves by the command- 
ing manner of the grand Napoleon. 



200 THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 

Elise, 
And won by the sweetness and grace of Josephine. 

Mathilde. 

Yet they have all gone ; the handsome carriages filled 
with fair dames, richly dressed and glittering with di- 
amonds ; the wives and daughters of the new nobility of 
the Empire ; dashing young officers who won their spurs 
under the Emperor's own eye ; veteran generals whose 
breasts were covered with orders ; cabinet ministers, diplo- 
mats, and distinguished citizens, all have gone, and the 
broad avenues are deserted, save where the guard marches 
up and down hoping for the hour to be relieved from 
duty. Thus pass all earthly pageants. 

Elise. 
But these horrible conspiracies. 

Mathilde. 
Bah ! they bring happiness to the Emperor ! 

Lucille. 

Pretty happiness ! not to know the moment a stiletto 
may find its way into one's body. In battle it's different: 
one expects death ; but in peace, in one's own house ! that 
is dreadful. 

Mathilde. 

However, I am not wrong; the conspiracy of the in- 
fernal machine made Napoleon consul for life, and that 
which has just been discovered made him Emperor; but 
to think he pardoned Polignac and Riviere ! 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 201 

Elise. 

That was a trick of my noble mistress. Being on her 
close attendance, and the first lady in waiting, I overheard 
her promising the aunt and sister of Riviere to facilitate 
their getting access to the Emperor, although he had 
strictly forbidden it the day before. 

Lucille. 

Yes, and I was with Madame Louis when he promised 
the pardon, but he muttered indignantly to himself, " The 
miserable wretches, to wish to assassinate me ! What base- 
ness ! — what cowardice !" 

Mathilde, pointing to Marie, ivlio slozvly appears. 

Oh, see ! who is this that intrudes on the privacy of the 
gardens of the Empress ? 

Elise. 

Ah ! you have frightened the poor child. {Kiiidly) 
Come here, my pretty child ; tell me what you wish. 

Marie. 

Oh, thank you, madame ! Oh, tell me the right way to 
the palace of the Emperor ! 

Elise. 
Why, my child, you are in the Imperial Gardens. 

Marie, raising Jiands. 

Mon Dieu ! I thank thee. But tell me, dear madame, 
can one get to speak with the Emperor ? 



202 THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 

Elise. 

Surely, my child, it is not forbidden ; every one can 
speak to him ; but the better to know his convenience, you 
must be announced. 

Mathilde. 

Have you a letter of audience ? 

Marie. 
No, madame. 

Mathilde. 

Then, I am sorry to tell you that it will be impossible 
for you to speak with the Emperor. 

Marie. 

Will you please to tell me, madame, how to get a letter 
of audience ? 

Mathilde to Lucille. 
What a strange question ! I wonder who the child is ? 

Marie, zvitJi anguish. 

Oh, I must see the Emperor ! I vmst speak to him ! 
Madame, do not send me away, I implore you ! 

Mathilde. 

But the guards will drive you out ; they have orders 
they must execute. Indeed, they will do so. We are 
ladies in waiting to the Empress. 

Marie to Elise, tJirozving herself on knees. 
Oh, madame! you look so kind and sweet! oh, for 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 



203 



pity's sake, let me speak to the Emperor ! Oh, do not refuse 
me ! 

Elise. 

My poor child, you have come at a bad time ; the Em- 
peror has been engaged in a grand reception to-day, and 
has just retired to his cabinet, where he may possibly 
remain all night. But tell me why you wish to see him. 

Marie. 

Wliy I wish to see him ? Why should I wish to see 
him but to get the pardon of my father, General Lajolais, 
condemned to death by him. 

Both. 
Poor child ! 

Marie. 
So you see you cannot refuse. 

Elise. 

No one would dare disturb the Emperor when he shuts 
himself up in his cabinet. 

Marie. 

Well, then, take me to the Empress or Madame Louis ; 
they are so good. Oh ! I implore you ! 

Lucille. 
Elise, be careful how you mix up in this affair. 

Mathilde. 
The Emperor will not like it. 



204 



THE CFIILD HEROINE MARIE. 



Elise. 



But, Mathilde, the poor child will die of grief. See ! 
My child, I will do for you all I can, and you must do 
the rest. I will bring you to Madame Louis's apartments, 
and you will tell her your story, and plead your cause. 
Come, follow me. Ladies, will you come? 

Lucille. 
Yes, we will, and will pray for your success, poor child ! 

Elise. 

We will go to the Princess Hortense. Do not be afraid 
to tell your griefs ; she is very good, and will be kind to 
you even if she can do nothing. [They leave, and curtain 
falls. Paiise long enough to change stage appearance}^ 

Curtain rises and shows a liandsoviely-furnished room ; harp, 
marble table, sofa; Hortense is bending over a basket 
of flowers and does not see Marie, zvho advances sloivly 
atid alone. 

Marie, timidly, after a pause. 
Madame ! 

Hortense turns. 
What do you want ? Who arc you ? 

Marie. 
I am the daughter of General Lajolais, madame, 

Hortense, advancing and taking her hand. 
Poor child ! What can I do for you ? 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 205 

Marie, 
Let me have an audience with the Emperor. 

HORTENSE. 

Impossible, my poor child ! 

Marie, in angiiisli. 

Oh, do not say that, madame ! do not say impossible ! 
If you only knew how I have suffered in trying to reach 
you, you would pity me, and not crush me with that 
dreadful word, 

Hortense. 

The Emperor, my child, is justly incensed against the 
authors of this conspiracy, and declares he will pardon no 
more of them. It would only expose you to new pain 
were you to see him. 

Marie. 

Oh, 111071 Dieu ! I — no! I will not believe my father 
guilty. If I did my courage would abandon me. I should 
die. {Weeps) 

Hortense, leading her to sofa, both seat themselves. 

Poor, poor child ! your grief touches me. Come, sit 
here beside me and tell me all your trouble. 

Marie. 

Imagine, madame, the grief of my mamma and myself 
when we heard of this conspiracy, and learned that my 
father was accused of being mixed up in it. No, you can- 
not realize our sorrow. Finally, one day, oh, that dread- 
ful day! we were just dressing for dinner, Mamma was 



2o6 THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 

just combing the last wave of my hair and singing softly 
(Mamma has a beautiful voice), when a great noise was 
heard in the hall. Suddenly our door was burst open, our 
room filled with gendarmes, and one of them said to 
mamma, " You must come with me, madame," and without 
giving us time to get our dress changed they made us go 
down and get into a carriage, and drove off, never stopping 
until we reached the prison gates. My poor mamma ! we 
were together, and that was a comfort. But the cruel men 
at the prison said we must be separated ; and in spite of 
my cries, my tears, and prayers, they tore me away from 
my mother's arms, and while they carried her to a prison 
cell I swooned away and was dragged to a bench outside. 
When 1 recovered consciousness I thought the- grief of it 
would kill me, madame, to find myself suddenly all alone 
in the world, without help, without protection, a poor weak 
child without courage. Ah, madame ! my heart was frozen 
like ice and all was dark before me. I thought at first it 
must be a frightful dream ; but no ! alas ! it was all true. 
Then I thought of the good God and prayed. I asked the 
help of our Blessed Lady ; but it suddenly struck me, instead 
of praying longer for ourselves, to ask of Heaven the 
strength and courage to reach you or the Empress. I knew 
if I saw one or the other of you my father would be saved, 
and now that I am here you tell me it is impossible ! Oh, 
then all is lost! all is lost! {Throws herself at Hortense's 
feet ; bursts into fresh grief .) 

HoRTENSE soothes Marie. 

Well, we must see what can be done. But, my child, be 
calm. Tell me when you left your mother. 

Marie. 
This morning, madame. 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 207 

HORTENSE. 
And doubtless you have eaten nothing, 

Marie. 

Yes, madame ; the jailer's daughter gave me something 
to eat. Without it I know not what I would have done. 

HoRTENSE. 

But you must need food, and if you walked here you 
must be very tired. 

Marie. 

Ah, madame ! I feel neither hunger nor fatigue. I think 
but of two things, which are, my mother is in a dungeon 
and my father is sentenced to death. 

HoRTENSE, raisincr her. 

Remain here. I will go to my mother's apartments, and 
we will consult together to see if it be possible to contrive 
an audience with the Emperor for you. 

Empress Josephine steps in softly. 

Empress. 
Why an audience with the Emperor ? 

HoRTENSE. 

Oh, mamma! this is Mademoiselle Lajolais. 

Empress, luxlf disconcerted. 

The daughter of him who wished to assassinate Napo- 
leon ? 



2o8 1^-^E CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 

HORTENSE. 

Is the poor child responsible, mamma ? If you only 
knew how much she has suffered, and how greatly she is 
to be pitied ! 

Marie, with pathos. 

God alone can know that ! 

Empress. 
Who accompanied you here, mademoiselle? 

Hortense. 
No one, mamma; she came alone. 

Empress. 
Alone, and so young ! 

Marie. 

Yes, alone ; and, madame, if you refuse to help me, if 
through you I cannot get an audience with the Emperor, 
I shall soon be forever alone in the world. 

Empress. 
Indeed, my child, I promise to do the best I can for you. 

Hortense. 

And I, also. 

Marie. 

Oh, I trust the goodness of you both, dear ladies ! I 
know that you pity me. But my mother's love and care, 
who can restore that to me ? 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 



209 



HORTENSE. 

Mamma, you will manage it so she can speak to the 
Emperor, will you not ? 

Empress. 

I am extremely sorry, my child, but Bonaparte has com- 
manded me so emphatically to spare him these scenes. I 

really fear Then, he is closeted with the Minister 

of Finance. This young girl must come again. 

HoRTENSE. 

When, mamma? when? 

Empress. 

To-morrow, or the day after. I must at least try to pre- 
pare Bonaparte for this new application for pardon, 

HORTENSE. 

But, mamma, consider ! Her father may in the mean 
time be executed ! But do not weep, my poor child. 
Come, I shall play for you on my harp; it will chase away 
the tears. (Hortense plays on the harp.) 

Marie stands by the harp, and after the piece says, 

How kind you are, madame ! I thank you for that beau- 
tiful music. 

Empress. 

Hortense, keep her here in your apartments. Conceal 
her presence from every one, for if Bonaparte should know 
of her being here all would fail. Then to-morrow, — to- 
morrow we can try what we can do for her. 

14 



2IO THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 

HORTENSE. 

Very well, mamma. {Tosses her head wisehievoiisly) 
General Bonaparte owes me something for marrying his 
brother, and he will not beat the prospective Queen of 
Holland, however he may choose to storm at her. So I 
shall make a grand toilet; it will remind him of a thing 
or two. 

Empress. 

My dear Hortense, you are a noble soul ; but take care, 
Bonaparte is very vindictive when thwarted. Heaven 
bless you ! I will pray to the Queen of Angels to touch 
Bonaparte's heart ! 

Hortense. 

Thank you, mamma; you give me courage. Come, little 
one; we must retire. 

Curtain falls. 



SCENE IV. Qirtain rises on Throne Room. Eniperor's 
Salon. Groups of richly-dressed ladies around. Guards, 
whispering. Groups near the edge of stage, consisting of 
Ladies de Sainville, de Brignot, and de Lavalette. 

Lady de Sainville. 

Look, ladies, there is Madame Louis ! How lovely she 
looks to-night ! Ma foil I wonder what she can be up to ? 
I shouldn't doubt if it were something about the people 
implicated in the late conspiracy. I tell you, the Emperor 
will be enraged. 

Lady de Lavalette. 

He vowed he would grant no more pardons on that 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 21I 

score, and gave strict orders that no more petitions be pre- 
sented to him. 

Lady de Brignot, 

Look, ladies, at Madame Louis as she now stands \ See 
her slender figure ! She is very beautiful, and even more 
good than beautiful. Every one, high or low, loves her, 
and she returns their homage so gracefully. There's no 
hauteur in her noble soul. She is like her mother, and 
uses her power only to do good. 

Lady de Sainville. 

But who is that young girl with her? Notice, ladies, 
there is something remarkable in her appearance. Her 
face is sorrowful, her eyes are downcast and so sad ; her 
countenance wears the expression of the Madonna that the 
Emperor sent the Empress from Spain. 

Lady de Lavalette. 

Look, now she raises her eyes. What a mournful look 
they wear ! And see, her long hair — a different shade from 
Madame Louis's — falls in waves to her waist. She looks as 
if she did not see anything around her. Don't it strike 
you so, Lady de Brignot? 

Lady de Brignot. 

Take breath, dear, I advise. I did not know you could 
both rave so poetically. There is something uncommon 
about the child ; and mark my words, there's some dra- 
matic little trick in waiting for the Emperor when he 
comes. The Empress is always springing a mine under 
his feet, no matter how angry he grows. 



212 THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 

Lady de Sainville. 

Well, let us wait patiently, and see the result. I would 
not be surprised if that were the daughter of General 
Lajolais, the child that Mademoiselle Elise smuggled into 
the apartments of Madame Louis. 

Mlles. Mathilde, Elise, and Lucille approach. 

Lady de Brignot. 

Here come the Empress's ladies. Mile. Elise, is not 
that young mademoiselle with Madame Louis the daugh- 
ter of Lajolais, the conspirator? 

Mlle. Elise. 

Yes, madame ; and your heart would ache for her if 
you knew her sad tale. 

Mlle. Mathilde. 

She is going to petition the Emperor for pardon. Oh ! 
pray for her success ! 

Mlle. Lucille. 

I feel as though I could follow her to the Emperor's 
feet, and kneel with her there until he consents to her 
prayer, poor child ! 

Lady de Sainville. 

I fear much for her success. The Emperor grows so 
angry at these scenes. 

Lady de Lavalette. 
Has she a mother ? 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 



Mlle. Elise. 



213 



Her mother is shut up in the prison of the Bicetre, so 
the poor child is truly desolate. 

Lady de Brignot. 
How did she get here ? 

Mlle. Elise. 

She walked the whole distance. That delicate, timid 
child, shrinking, terrified, found herself alone at night in a 
great city. She who had never been out of her carriage in 
the city; not knowing -the way; no one to encourage her, 
poor child ! She must have a brave heart. If I were in 
her place I would die of terror. 

Lady de Brignot. 
Cease ; here comes the Emperor. 

Napoleon enters. All form a double line, while a lond 
voice proclaims, "The Emperor!" All bow as he enters. 
He zvalks in their midst, zvhen S2idde?dy Marie darts for- 
ward, seizes his hand, crying, "Pardon ! Pardon !" 
Napoleon starts back, frozvns, and says, angrily. 

What ! again ! I have said I would have no more such 
scenes as this. {^He folds his arms, and tries to pass on) 

Marie, still kneeling. Ladies look on ivith great interest. 
Oh, Sire! I conjure you to listen to me by the memory 



214 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 



of your own father ! Sire, grant me pardon for mine. It is 
my father, Sire ! He must have been led away by others. 
Pardon him ! pardon him ! Oh, Sire ! his Hfe is in your 
hands. Pity an unhappy child who asks for nothing but 
the life of her father. Sire, grace, pity, pardon ! 

Napoleon, pusliing her aside. 
Let me pass, mademoiselle! 

Marie drags herself on her knees after him. 

Oh, pity, pity ! Sire, pardon for my father ! Oh, just turn 
one look upon me ! Sire, do not, do not leave me, or I shall 
die ! {^Slie seizes his haitd.) 

Napoleon turns, looks at her a moment, says, sternly, 

Are you Mademoiselle Lajolais? (Marie gases at 
him; bozvs her head.) Do you know this is the second 
time your father has been guilty of crimes against the 
state ? 

Marie. 
I know. But, Sire, the first time he was innocent. 

Napoleon. 
But this time you admit he was not ! 

Marie. 

And so I implore you to pardon him. Sire. Oh, Sire, 
grant me my father's life, or I shall die here at your feet! 
[A pause. Pardon chorus. All Join.) 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 215 

Napoleon hesitates, passes hand on forehead ; at its close, he 
leans towards Marie. 

Mademoiselle, be comforted ; I pardon your father. But 
arise now. (Marie does not move.) 

HoRTENSE, advancing with a bouquet of violets. 
Sire, there is one more favor. 

Napoleon takes floivers. 

I will hear no more. Remember, Hortense, I forbid it. 
( Walking awaj.) 

Hortense foUozvs. 

The mother of this child is in solitary confinement in 
the Bicetre. 

Napoleon. 

Let her stay there. It is but just that one of a family 
should suffer. {Throivs violets awaj.) 

Hortense, kneeling. 

Sire, I kneel. Behold ! Madame Louis at your feet. 
Pardon her; she is innocent! 

Napoleon. 

Ma foil Well, well, for peace' sake, she is pardoned ! I 
am going to my cabinet ; you have already detained me 
beyond the hour appointed. After this, offenders against 
the state and all criminals must suffer the penalty of their 
crimes without exception. A grand farce the *' Code 
Napoleon" will be if this goes on, with laws so weak as to 
be washed out at will by the tears of two pretty women. 
Bah ! I won't have it. {^He leaves.) 



2i6 THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 

HoRTENSE, turning to Marie. 

Come, poor child ; you have saved their hves. (Ladies 
gather around.) 

Mlles. Lucille and Elise. 
She has fainted ! she is insensible ! 

Hortense. 
Assist, ladies, to carry her to my apartments. 

Curtain falls. A moment's pause. Curtain rises. Madame 
Louis's apartments. Lounge, on it Marie lying. Only Em- 
press, Hortense, and Ladies de Brignot, de Sainville, 
and de Lavalette. Table near, zvith bottles, luine-glass, 
smelling salts, etc. 

Empress, fanning her. 

Alas ! can it be possible that the shock of joy has de- 
prived her of life ? 

Hortense. 

How very white and still she is ! Oh, mamma ! send 
for your physician. Lady de Brignot, pray — But stop, I 
thought I saw her eyelids quiver. 

Lady de Brignot. 
She has only fainted, madame. See, she moves. 

Empress. 

Yes, she is reviving. A few drops of wine, Hortense; 
give it very carefully. (Lady de Sainville pours out a 
glass of zvine ; gives it to Hortense.) 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 217 

HoRTENSE, Jiolding it to her lips. 
Here, my child, swallow this. 

Empress. 

Let every one move away that she may have air, while 
I apply this vinaigrette to her nostrils. (Marie opens her 
eyes and heaves a sigh.) You are with friends, my child. 

Marie raises her head. Hortense seats herself on lounge 
and supports her. 

My father ! my father ! 

Madame Louis. 

Your father, ma cliere, you know the Emperor has par- 
doned him. Then do not agitate yourself; all is well. 

Marie, xvitli sudden energy. 

But what good will it be if some one does not tell him ? 
Let me go. I am the one who should carry him pardon. 
Oh, madame, do not hold me ! Let me go to him at 
once. 

Lady de Brignot. 

There is no need to hurry, mademoiselle. Take a little 
rest and nourishment first, and you will be able to start in 
an hour or two. 

Marie. 

An hour or two ! Would you have me wait an hour or 
two to announce pardon to a man under sentence of death. 



2i8 THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 

and that man my father, whose suffering is prolonged by 
his not knowing he is pardoned ? 

Empress. 

You are right, my child ; we will not detain you. But you 
cannot go alone to the prison. 

Ladies de Brignot and de Sainville, advancing. 

Lady de Brignot. 

We beg your Majesty to allow us to command our hus- 
bands, the Emperor's aides, to accompany Mademoiselle 
Lajolais to the prison. 

Empress. 

Mademoiselle Lajolais will accept the protection of my 
friends, Captain de Lavalette and Lieutenant de Sainville. 
My carriage awaits my orders in the court. Lady de Laval- 
ette, go tell a guard to direct them to drive around to the 
private entrance ; meanwhile, Lady de Brignot and Lady de 
Sainville will assist you to descend to it, and see that all is 
comfortable. Farewell, my sweet child. Josephine sends 
you with her blessing. 

HORTENSE. 

Farewell, mademoiselle. May Heaven reward your filial 

love ! 

Marie. 

Oh, ladies ! how can I ever pour out my gratitude ! how 
can I ever thank you ! 

Empress. 
Hush, dear child ! You must depart. {They leave.) 
Curtain falls. 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 



219 



SCENE V. Prison of the Bicetrc ; darkness. Guards 
standing zvitli spears ; witlun the bars is seen Madame 
Lajolais, chained to a wooden bench ; a table, zcnth a tin 
Clip of water and a loaf. 

Madame Lajolais is seated on bench, elboiu on table, in 
attitude of deepest dejection. She speaks. 

Oh, this terrible gloom ! this lonely, dreadful dungeon ! 
Oh, will I never see the sunshine or the blue sky ! never 
breathe the pure air of Heaven ! I feel as though my 
brain were on fire. I will get crazed. Why will my 
thoughts scatter so ? Where is my child, my poor Marie ? 
Oh, where is my lost darling to-night? Out in the wide, 
wicked world, alone, friendless, unsheltered, perhaps dying 
of want and terror! Mother in Heaven, have you guarded 
my child ? Oh, desolate Mother, send holy angels to shield 
her ! she is so young, so timid, so helpless. And my hus- 
band, where is he ? Here, they tell me, in these very walls. 
But oh ! I shall never see him again. He must die this 
very day ! Oh, I am going mad ! I cannot endure this 
bitter anguish! Yet, am I not a Christian? Has not my 
Saviour suffered that I might have a model ? Was not His 
human, divine Heart bruised, that I might have where to 
calm the throbbings of mine ? Yes, Lord, {throws herself 
on knees) Thy will be done ! Only give me patience. 
Dear Lady in Heaven, I place myself in your hands. Oh, 
aid me ! Aid me to pray my heart to peace ! Lord, on 
the Lake of Galilee Thou didst say " Peace" to the stormy 
waters ; breathe, then, upon my soul, and say to its troubled 
waves "Be still!" {^She bows her head dozvn low, a szveet 
symphony is heard. At its close^ Be strong, my soul, God 
is good. Oh, the peace of the suffering heart that Heaven 
blesses ! [Noise suddenly heard outside.) 



220 THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 

Prison-Keeper, outside. 
Yes, they are the Emperor's orders. 

Guard, outside. 
Release the prisoners Lajolais ? 

Madame Lajolais, starts. 
Heaven ! what means this ? 

Enter tivo Guards zvith lantern, the Prison-Keeper, Marie, 
and Lady de Sainville. Marie rushes to her mother's 
arms, crying, 
Mamma ! mamma ! the Emperor has pardoned you 

both ! Yes, pardoned all ! [Falls on her neck.) 

Madame Lajolais. 
My child ! my child ! 

Lady de Sainville. 

The Emperor has granted you and General Lajolais, 
your husband, a full pardon, madame. 

Madame Lajolais. 

How is this ? They told me my husband would die, 
and I should be exiled. 

Prison-Keeper. 

No, madame, it is all true. Orders have come under the 
imperial seal to release your husband, General Lajolais, 
and yourself. 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 22 1 

Marie. 

Yes, mamma, I myself prostrated at Napoleon's feet ; he 
heard me; and oh, mamma! he is so good! So is the 
Empress and Madame Louis, who first saw me and pitied 
me. Oh, mamma, we must serve the Emperor ! 

Madame Lajolais. 
We will indeed! But where is your papa? 

Lady de Sainville. 

He is preparing to meet you all. He also refuses to 
believe the good news ; so let us haste away 

Marie. 

Yes, let us depart from this horrible place. Thank God 
he has been so good to us ! 

Madame Lajolais clasps Marie silently in her arms. 

Prison-Keeper. 

Come, madame, I must resume my duties ; I have no 
time to lose. Your daughter did a heroic act in claiming 
pardon at the Emperor's feet, and my business is to release 
you ; so come. 

Madame Lajolais. 

My child, is it a dream, or am I free ? Will I meet your 
father? Oh, joy! 

Marie. 

Yes, mamma; let us hasten. It is no dream, but a joy- 
ful reality. 



222 THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 

Lady de Sainville. 
Be calm, madame ; it is all true. 
Curtain falls. 

Finale. 

Lights are turned np ; all the characters are in the back- 
ground. From one side comes Madame Lajolais, be- 
tween Marie and Madame de Sainville ; from the 
other side comes General Lajolais, bctxveen Prison- 
Keeper and First Guard. Madame and Marie and 
General rnsli together and embrace. 

Madame Lajolais. 
Free ! free ! My husband ! 

Marie. 
Oh, papa, papa ! you are free ! 

General Lajolais. 
My child! my wife! Oh, this happy, happy moment! 

Madame Lajolais. 

We owe it all to our child, Victor, to our darling Marie. 
Who is this little girl ? {To Susette, zvho comes up smiling.) 

Marie, taking Susette's hand. 

Oh, she is the dear little thing that gave me something 
to eat when I was here for the first time, perishing with 
hunger and nearly crazed with terror and grief 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 



SusETTE courtsics. 



223 



Oh, mademoiselle, do not think of that; I only did my 
duty. And, indeed, when I heard you had gone to the Em- 
peror, I said I knew he would grant it, for mademoiselle, 
no one could refuse your prayer. 

Madame Lajolais. 

Susette, we shall not forget your kindness. You have 
seen us torn from each other's arms, a scattered, wretched, 
little home circle, now you see us reunited, father, mother, 
and daughter. Will you not complete our happiness ? 
Marie needs a maid, will you come with us and permit us 
to show you our gratitude by being near to us at all times 
and all through life? 

Susette. 

I will come most gladly, madame, if father and mother 
will let me. 

Prison-Keeper. 

I will, Susette. You couldn't be better off with such a 
mistress. Go, with my blessing. 

Madame de Sainville. 
Are you sure your mother will consent ? 

Susette. 

Yes, indeed, madame. Mother often grieves because I 
have to spend my life in this gloomy place, among sol- 
diers and prison walls and with crazy people around me. 
She will only be too glad to let me go. 



224 



THE CHILD HEROINE MARIE. 



Marie. 



So at last we are at peace, reunited after a bitter separa- 
tion, with hearts full of love for Josephine and Hortense, 
and full of loyalty to Napoleon. Let us raise up our 
hearts to thank God, whose mercy has thus made us happy 
again. Let us praise His goodness and promise to be His 
children in time and eternity. 

Grand Closi)!^ CJionis. 



DOTTIE'S DREAM. 
FOR LITTLE GIRLS. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Nan. Queen Mab. 

May. Fairies : 

LiBBiE. Gentle-Voice. 

Eva. Kind-Eye. 

Cora. Ready-Hand. 

Nellie. Loving-Heart. 

Dottie. Happy-Smile. 

Grace. Silver-Tongue. 
Baby Florrie. 
Sixteen characters. The smaller the characters, the better the effect. 



A School-Room, with large ann-chair for teacher. Couple of 
benclies zvith books scattered on them. 

Nan, May, ajid Libbie etiier with books, and begin an ani- 
mated conversation. 

Nan. 
Now we are by ourselves, let's talk about it. 

May. 

I think it's just awful, little things like us to be punished 
for bad lessons ! No wonder it would break our hearts, and 
nearly kill us. 

15 225 



226 DOTTIKS DREAM. 

LiBBIE. 

I think it would be the funniest thing in the world if we 
always hieiv our lessons. Why, there never was a little 
girl on this earth that didn't sometimes miss her lessons. 
I wonder, when our papas and mammas were little girls, 
if they didn't ever get scolded for bad lessons ? 

May. 
Oh, Libbie ! -when was your papa ever a " little girl" ? 

L I B B I E, embarrassed. 

Why, before he was a little boy. Oh, — indeed, I 
don't know when — except — I don't think he ever got 
such a scolding as we got this morning. 

Nan. 

And poor little Dottie ! she got the worst, and I guess 
she is getting it still. 

May. 

What did Sister say ? I was so scared I couldn't listen, 
and the room was so quiet I couldn't hear. 

Libbie. 

Couldn't hear because the room was so quiet? That's a 
funny reason ! 

May. 

No, it's just it; all the words seemed mixed into one 
big one, and it was like a big bee would sound buzzing on 
your straw hat. 

Nan. 

You're mighty easy frightened. Well, she said " she 



DOTTIE'S DREAM. 227 

was quite displeased with the idleness of some of the little 
girls in her class, and that she would surely give them a 
severe punishment if they continued to bring such bad 
lessons ; and she said she wanted all those that missed 
their lessons to-day to come up to the class-room at recre- 
ation hour and say them over, and if they didn't know 
them " Oh, dear ! — and I guess she'll soon send for us. 

May. 

Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! I don't know one word yet ! Oh, 
dear ! Where is my Geography ? I will be killed dead ! 
[She sits dozvu to study.) 

LiBBIE. 

You great coward ! don't worry yourself! Be like me : 
enjoy yourself until you can't do it any longer. 

May. 

Don't speak to me ! don't look at me ! [Studying) 
" The four Middle States are " 

Nan. 

Are nuisances! [To Libbie.) Libbie dear, you are 
smaller than I am ; run off up-stairs and see if Sister looks 
cross. 

Libbie, rising: 

If she does I won't come back ; I'll go and hide. 
[Goes.) 

Nan sits ivatcliing May for a minntc. May studies. 

Oh, May ! you are desperately foolish ! Maybe she won't 
send for us at all. . 



228 DOTTIE'S DREAM. 

May raises her head. 

Yes, she will ; she never breaks her word. Hush ! don't 
speak to me. 

Nan. 
What did you say ? 

May. 
I said, Don't speak to me. [Studies) 

Nan, roguishly. 
Don't you want me to speak to you ? 

May, enipliatically. 
No! 

Nan. 
Why don't you want me to speak to you ? 

May. 
Do hush. Nan ! Because I want to study. 

Nan. 
Did you say you wanted to study. May ? 

May. 
Yes; hush! [Studies) 

After a pause. Nan, tormeiitingly. 

Well, why don't you study? (May st?idies and does not 
ansiver. Nan calls) May ! 



DOTTIES DREAM. 229 

May. 
What ? Nan, please let me alone ! 

Nan. 

Yes, in a minute. Do you want me to be quiet so that 
you can study? 

May. 
Oh, Nan ! I'll never learn this lesson ! 

Nan. 
What's to prevent you ? 

May. 

Why, you are preventing me as hard as you can. You 
want me to be punished, I do believe. 

Nan, rising and going to her. 

No, indeed, I don't. May. Come, let me hear you what 
you know. 

May. 
Now you won't make fun of me ? 

Nan, reproachfully. 
Would you suspect me of such a thing ? 

May. 
Nor tell me the wrong word ? 



230 DOTTIES DREAM. 

Nan. 
How could I ? 

May. 
But in real earnest help me ? 

Nan. 
In real earnest. 

May 

Now, Nan, if you don't ! 

Nan. 
Give me the Geography. 

May. 
Here. {Hands it; points^ The Middle States. 

Nan Jiears her. 
What are the Middle States ? 

May. 
Nev/ York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Delaware. 

Nan. 
Excellent ! Describe New York. 

May. 

New York is the largest of the Middle States. It con- 
tains the largest city in the Union, which is the metropolis 
of America. 

Nan. 

Splendid! What are its principal natural features? 



DOTTIE'S DREAM. 23 1 

May. 

Its natural features are Let me see. What are its 

features? Yes, that's the part I don't know very well. 
They are 

Nan, roguishly. 
Land and water. 

May, who looks intently npzvards, trying to remember. 

Yes, Land and water, and Tell me the next word, 

Nan. 

Nan, mischievously. 
And dry goods. 

May. 

Land and water, and dry goods, and the Governor's 
house, together with 

Nan, laughing. 
The house that Jack built. 

May, indigjtantly . 

That isn't there ! nor dry goods either ! You promised 
you wouldn't make fun of me. 

Nan, laus^hino;. 

Why, you foolish little mortal, you don't know one word 
of that lesson. 

May. 

Give me my book, then, and let me study it. 

Nan. 
I'd rather hear you a little more. 



232 



DOTTIE'S DREAM. 



May. 
I won't say another word for you. 

Nan. 

Just for my own improvement. " Improve every moment" 
the copy-books say. 

May. 

I don't care what they say, I won't ! Besides, Miss Nan, 
I don't think you know your own lessons, even if you are 
in the first division ahead of me. 

Enter Florrie. 

Nan. 

Don't begin to hurt my feelings. Look at little Florrie. 
What do you want, Florrie ? 

Florrie. 

Sister Rose wants you to run straight up-stairs to recite 
your Geography. 

Nan. 

Thank you, miss. I'll run and "recite it" backwards, 
I'm afraid ; but I'll go. 

May. 

I am real glad. I'll get a chance to study now. 

Nan. 

Well, I'd be sorry to disappoint you. Come, Florrie. 
Adieu. {Boivs lozv, and leaves zvitJi Florrie.) 



DOTTIE'S DREAM. 



233 



May, alone. 

I'm glad she's gone. I do like Nan, but, indeed, she 
does keep me from studying my lessons. If it wasn't for 
her, sometimes, I wouldn't miss and be punished. Still, 
she is so good-natured and says such funny things, that I 
can't get mad at her. But, oh ! these dreadful, dreadful 
"Middle States"! What will I do about my Geography? 
{Clasps hands?) Oh, I know ! I'll go to the oratory and say 
three Hail Mary's. That's just it. I guess it's near my 
turn, anyhow, to recite. {^She goes, A pause.) 

Enter Eva, Cora, Nellie, and Dottie, who is excited and 
crying. Eva puts her arm around Dottie. 

Eva. 
Poor little Dottie ! It is really too bad. 

Nellie. 
Never mind, Dottie ; we'll try to beg you off. 

Dottie, angry. Shakes them off. 
I don't want you to ! I wouldn't get off if you begged me. 

Cora. 
Oh, Dottie ! you don't mean that. 

Dottie, still excited. 
Yes, I do. I'm mad enough to mean anything. 

Eva. 
Oh, Dottie ! don't be bad-tempered. 



234 



DOTTIES DREAM. 



DOTTIE. 

Yes, I will ! I think it's too hard for any little creature 
like me. 

Nellie. 

But didn't we all get scolded ? 

DOTTIE. 

Scolded! Yes; but I got jumped at nearly. 

Eva. 
Now, Dottie, Sister never jumps at us. 

DOTTIE. 

Well, she comes as near to it as anything I know. I hate 
my old books ! If I only was a young lady ! wouldn't I 
send out the books from my sight ! I hate school ! 

Cora. 

Oh, you dreadful little girl ! What does Sister say to you 
about temper? 

DOTTIE. 

I never listened. 

Nelhe. 
You bad little Dottie ! I won't pity you any more ! 

Dottie. 
I don't want anybody to pity me. 

Cora. 
Why didn't you say your lesson, Dottie ? 



DOTTIKS DREAM. 235 

DOTTIE. 
Because I didn't know it. 

Cora. 
And why didn't you know it? 

DOTTIE. 

Because I didn't study it. 

Cora. 
Why didn't you study it ? 

DOTTIE. 

I'll just tell you why. We little ones found a sweet 
little dead robin (that died from going to school, for all I 
know), and we made up a funeral, and buried it under the 
white-rose bush in the grove; and they made the coffin out 
of my spellin'-book, and then I couldn't study my lesson, 
for I hadn't any book. 

Cora. 

Why didn't you tell Sister that, Dottie ? 

DOTTIE. 

Tell Sister that ! Why, what would become of me then ? 

Eva. 
Oh, it was well you didn't tell her. 

Nellie. 
Well, she'll have to tell her in the end, Eva. 



236 DOTTIES DREAM. 

DOTTIE. 
But I won't. I'll get punished every day before I'll tell. 

Eva. 

Well, Dottie, I'll lend you my book to study your punish 
lesson out of. 

Dottie, %vnngi>ig her hands disconsolately. 

Oh, to think ! I'm punished all alone, when you're all 
out running in the grove and playing on the swing ! Oh, 
dear, dear ! {She cries.) 

Eva. 

Never mind. Study hard, Dottie ; it will soon be over. 

Cora, 
Yes, study hard and know it soon. 

Nellie. 
The time will pass quicker if you study. 

Dottie. 

You're just wasting your time talking. I just won't 
study a word ! I'll get the consumption and die, so I will ! 

Eva. 
Don't be so spiteful, Dottie. 

Dottie. 
I will be what I please, Miss Eva. 



DOTTIE'S DREAM. 237 

Cora. 
Oh, but you have an awful temper, Dottie ! 

Grace enters. 

Grace. 

Sister says to let Dottie alone, and come away until she 
studies her lesson, or you'll be punished too ! {All rising 
in great agitation.) 

All. 

Oh, dear ! did she find us out ? Come, let's go ! Good- 
by, Dottie ! {All leave.) 

Dottie, alone. 

Just look at me! punished here by myself just for missing 
that hateful lesson. And it was for doing something good, 
too : burying that dear little bird. I think it's just a sin. 
There are all the little ones running around, having such 
fun, and me, — oh, dear! punished! I just know what 
they're doing. Maybe they're playing "jacks," or maybe 
they're getting cherries. Oh, dear ! and me punished ! 
Well, I won't be punished ! I won't study one word ! No, 
not if the President would get on his knees to beg me ! 
{She goes and climbs into the arm-chair near, and resolutely 
folds her arms.) I say I won't study 1 {She throws her 
head back and shuts her eyes.) Talk about the Presid nt ! 
No ! I'd say no forty-'leven times ! I won't I I won't ! 
{Pauses. Soft strains of piano are heard.) I won't! I won't 
study it ! {Piano continues. Dottie's arms relax ; says, 
faintly^ No, I won't ! {Piano continues. Dottie's arms 
drop, head nods ; she appears fast asleep. JShisic changes to 
a waltz.) 



238 



DOTTIES DREAM. 



Enter Queen Mab and the Fairies ivaltzing, zvitli zvaving 
wands; music accompanies. Gentle- Voice, Silver- 
Tongue, Kind-Eye, Ready-Hand, Loving-Heart, and 
Happy-Smile. They waltz around sleeping Dottie, and 
finally form a pretty tableau. Music ceases. 

Queen Mab, in a subdued voice. All speak in a sort of loud 

zvhisper. 

There is a truant mortal, fairy subjects. Know you how 
she came hither ? Speak, Gentle-Voice. 

Gentle- Voice. 

Sweet Queen, I cannot say. I know her not. But me- 
thinks the little one is sorrowing : her cheeks are flushed, 
and upon them are traces of tears. Poor little mortal ! 

Queen Mab. 

I see them. Loving-Heart, what think you causes this 
human elf her sorrow ? 

Loving-Heart. 

Dear Queen, I know her well, and oft have I been 
pained to see that little face disfigured by the frown of 
temper, and those little lips uttering words too bitter for a 
childish heart to dream of My sister, Happy-Smile, can 
tell you more, dear Queen. 

Queen Mab, 
Speak, then, Happy-Smile. 

Happy-Smile. 
Dear Queen, her name is " Dottie." A bright and happy 



DOTTIKS DREAM. 



239 



child, whose life is sunshine ; but she often clouds the 
golden day by her gloomy brow, and sharp and angry 
words come like poisonous weeds from her pouting lips. 
This very day she pained my heart, oh, sadly ! 

Queen Mab. 

How, my child ? 

Happy-Smile. 

Let Silver-Tongue repeat the tale. It may sound less 
saddening. 

Queen Mab. 
We await the music of your voice, Silver-Tongue. 

Silver-Tongue. 

To-day Dottie failed in her daily tasks, and when her 
gentle teacher chid her for her loss of precious time, and 
bade her return to say the unstudied lessons, the wicked 
spirit of anger rose in her childish heart, and, among a 
group of little friends, she gave full vent to all the spiteful 
words that formed upon her tongue,- and I, who loved her, 
fled away, because my name is Silver-Tongue, and her 
voice seemed discord in my ear. 

Queen Mab. 

How very, very sad ! 'Twould seem as though those 
little lips could only utter gladness, and those childish 
features only wear a smile. 

Kind-Eye. 

Ah, dear Queen ! forbear to judge poor Dottie. It was 
her lovincf nature that brought her to disgrace. 



240 



DOTTIES DREAM. 



Queen Mab. 
How was that, Kind-Eye ? 

Kind- Eye. 

She found a tiny robin, cold and dead, and, with a 
childish sympathy, she caressed it, and laid it to rest, as 
she fancied, under our favorite rose-bush. For this she 
tore her book, and was punished. Was it not so, Ready- 
Hand ? 

Ready-Hand. 
It was, dear Queen. Do not be angry with Dottie. 

Queen Mab. 

The Fairies love good and gentle children, but those who 
disobey they dare not love. We must not lavish favors 
on Dottie any longer. 

Ready-Hand, clasping her hands. 
Say not so, dear Queen ! Pray forgive her ! 

Loving-Heart, ktieeling. 
She will do better ! All the Fairies love Dottie ! 

Happy-Smile. 

She is ever a little sunbeam, save when the wicked spirit 
of anger weaves his spell around her. 

Kind-Eye. 

She will be lonely without us in her dreams, dear 
Queen. Command us not to leave her; we wish to be 



DOTTIE'S DREAM. 24 1 

her friend. I promise to whisper good resolves in her 
ear. 

Silver-Tongue. 

And I will tell her, too, what she will lose if she ever 
fails again. 

Gentle-Voice. 

Dearest Queen, forgive her ! [Kneels.) 

Happy-Smile. 
Yes, pardon her, gracious sovereign ! [Kneels.) 

Loving- Heart. 

Surely your heart will not allow you to withstand our 
prayers ! 

Queen Mab. 

My subjects, you touch me with your love for this little 
one. I can no longer deny you. Loving-Heart, will you 
protect her affections, and keep them pure and good ? 

Loving-Heart. 
Yes, gracious Queen, like a faithful Fairy. 

Queen Mab. 
Happy-Smile, will you lend her your sunshine ? 

Happy-Smile. 

Yes, gracious Queen, ever, even in her dreams. 

16 



242 



DOTTIE'S DREAM. 



Queen Mab. 

Silver-Tongue, will you fill her ears with the sweet music 
of kind words ? 

Silver-Tongue. 

Yes, gracious Queen, even to the lowliest. 

Queen Mab. 

Ready-Hand, will you teach her to assist those in 
trouble ? 

Ready-Hand. 

Yes, gracious Queen ; she shall learn from me to help 
the needy. 

Queen Mab. 

Gentle-Voice, will you place a seal upon her mouth, that 
anger may never raise discord on her lips ? 

Gentle- Voice. 

Yes, gracious Queen ; I will whisper of gentleness and 
sweetness, and her voice shall be full of music. 

Queen Mab. 

Then, my subjects, she is pardoned; and the future 
will tell if Dottie is worthy of the love of Queen Mab 
and her Fairies. But let us away, our butterfly steeds are 
dancing in the sunshine ! Let us away ! [Music begins.) 

All. 

Thanks, oh, thanks, a thousand times, dear Queen! 
Away ! away ! ( They dance off) 



DOTTIES DREAM. 



243 



Music continues. At its close, Dottie nibs her eyes and 
opens them ; looks around ; starts up ; Jumps off the chair. 

Where am I ? What have I been doing ? Where are 
the Fairies ? Oh, it must have been a dream ! Yes ! it 
was a beautiful, beautiful dream ! Those darling Fairies ! 
They begged me off And won't I be good ! and won't 
I study ! What a bad-tempered, wicked little girl I have 
been ! and Tm so sorry ! yes, so sorry ! Was it a dream ? 
Yes ; {looks) there are no Fairies here, that's certain. 
Well, this is certain too : I am never going to be bad- 
tempered again. And the first thing Til do is to go now, 
this minute, to Sister, and tell her and the little ones 
about the Fairies (I do believe they were Angels), and 
promise to be good and never miss any more lessons, 
and every one will soon see what comes from even Dottie's 
Dream. {Retires.) 



THE REPROOF OF THE FLOWER- 
ANGEL. 



DRAMATIS PERSON .«. 

First Queen, Rose. Mignonette. 

Second Queen, Lily. Heliotrope. 

Bee. • Violet. 

Daisy. Flower-Angel. 

Eight little girls (six or seven years old). 



The Flowers are in zvliite, with a cbistcr of their respective 
flowers bound on tlieir foreJieads, not zvreatlis ; no shoes, but 
flesli-colored hose, and the feet laced with narroiv red rib- 
bon ; small, ronnd zvings of zvhite tissue-paper sprinkled 
with gold. The Bee's zvings are brozvn, and striped zvith 
gold, and the capital letter B is bound on the forehead. 
The Angel has a gold band and star. Each Flower has a 
little bozver covered with evergreen. The children in this 
play should be very small, the smaller the better ; the An- 
gel and the Bee somezvhat taller than the rest. The 
Flowers are asleep on floor of stage, their heads resting under 
their bozver s. After a few moments' pause the Daisy raises 
her head, looks around, and Jumps up zvith a start. 

Daisy. 

Dear me ! 'tis the morning sun 
Beaming on my little cup. 
244 



THE REPROOF OF THE FLOWER-ANGEL. 



245 



See my sleepy sisters there. 
{SJie goes toivards ihcin) 
Come, sweet flowers, waken up. 
{She goes to the Mignonette, and shakes her gently.) 
Little sister Mignonette, 

Let me kiss thy velvet cheek ! 
Dew-drops sparkle on thee yet ; 
Wake ! and to thy sister speak. 

Mignonette raises her head ; says, pettishly, 
Daisy, thou art up too soon. 

If not sleepy, let 7ne be !* 
Close my petals, else my bloom 

Will have faded wretchedly. 
[She composes herself to sleep again.) 

'Dki'&y goes to Heliotrope, and says, 
Waken, sister Heliotrope ! 

Haste the glorious sunlight greet ! 
Let me see thy dark eyes ope, 
And inhale thy perfume sweet. 

Heliotrope starts np gayly, and says. 
Brightest eye the daylight owns, 

Thanks. My buds I'll now expand, 
Drinking in the liquid dew. 

While I list to thy command. 

Daisy takes her Jiand, and says. 
Come with me then, sister sweet; 

Peep into each flower-cup, 
Shake upon them sparkling drops, 

Wake each drowsy blossom up. 
{They go hand-in-hand to the Lily, coiirtesying very low) 



246 THE REPROOF OF THE FLOWER-ANGEL. 

Heliotrope. 

Pale-browed Lily ! regal flower ! 

Tears are glittering on thy cheek. 
Didst thou woo the midnight hour? 

Wake ! a smile thy sisters seek. 

Lily raises her head, and says, reproachfully, 

Busy little fragrant atoms, 

Why disturb the Lily's rest ? 
Dost not know a sad-eyed Angel 

Nestles in her snowy breast ? 
But I waken, lest the sunlight, 

Scorching, withering, should oppress. 
{She sinks doitni.) 

Daisy and Heliotrope k7ieel doivn, clasp their hands, and 

both say, 
Pardon, Lily meek, we pray. 
Pardon, and we'll run away. 
(Lily boivs assent.) 

They go to the Violet. Daisy shakes her, and says. 
Lazy blue-eyes, waken up ! 
Violet with the dew-filled cup, 
See ! the sun in Heaven high. 
Waken to thy sisters' cry ! 

Violet starts and nibs eyes ; looks around, and says. 
Not so, lazy sisters sweet. 

See ! our Queen is slumbering yet. 
{Points to Rose. She rises.) 
Come, let's fan her glowing cheek, 
Thoucrh her brow with dew is wet. 



THE REPROOF OF THE FLOWER-ANGEL. 



247 



{SJie takes Heliotrope's hand, and all three go towards Rose, 
who has seated herself; the Lily takes Violet's hand ; all 
four cojirtesy before the Rose; they separate, two standing 
on each side. Mignonette is still asleep^ 

Rose. 

Baby flowers, up so soon ! 

Come to wake their sleepy Queen. 
Chasing off the fading moon, 

Clustering round her Hke a dream. 
But some mishap comes, I fear; 
Loved ones, ye are not all here. 

Daisy. 

All but little Mignonette. 
Lazy one ! she's sleeping yet. 
So, sweet Queen, thy comfort take; 
She will join us if she wake. 

Rose. 

Touch the idler's dewy brow ; 
Tell her buds to open now ; 
Whisper that her Queen has spoken, 
That the spells of night are broken. 

(Daisy goes off to zvaken Mignonette; the other Flowers 
standing. She brings Mignonette to the Rose. Mignon- 
ette kneels.) 

Sleepy little Mignonette, 

Sun high up and slumbering yet. 

What has held thee fast to sleep ? 

(Mignonette ivccps.) 
Nay, my sweet child, do not weep. 



248 THE REPROOF OF THE FLOWER-ANGEL. 

Mignonette. 

Gentlest Queen, naught can I say, 
But a pardon humbly pray. 

{As she finishes these tvords the Bee comes skipping in, 
making a buzzing sound with his mouth ; two or three will 
assist him to make the noise louder. All tJie Flowers seem 
terrified, and run to their bozvers.) 

The Bee stops at Daisy's bower ; bozuing, says, 

Daisy, I am very tired, 

And my hive is far away. 
See, no honey have I gathered ; 
{Spreading out his hands) 

Just a little bit I pray. 

Daisy throws handkerchief at Bee, holding a corner of it. 

Go away, you saucy boy ; 
Other use my sweets employ. 

Bee skips, buzzing, off to Violet; court esying, says 

Violet, I have wandered far ; 

Tired and weary have I come. 
Give a dew-drop from thy lips 

Ere I take my journey home. 

Violet. . 

Gladly might I, Sir ! Lord B ! 
But I need it all, you see. 



THE REPROOF OF THE FLOWER- ANGEL. 249 

Bee skips, buzzing. 

Flower with the soft dark eye, 

With the rich and fragrant breath, 

Give a dew-drop from thy cheek 
Ere I close my eyes in death. 

Heliotrope. 

No, not one. Intruder, go ! 

[SJie tliroivs her handkerchief.) 
Torture not our presence so. 

{Saying this, she and all the Flowers rise and chase Bee tiuice 
aroimd the stage, brushing liivi zvitli their handkerchiefs ; tlic 
Bee, buzzing in great distress, tries to get off; they surround 
liivi in centre of stage ; lie kneels ; immediately the Flower- 
Angel appears ; holds out her zvand. The Flowers silently 
kfieel ; the K^^gya. goes to the throne of the Rose; stands 
upon it; the Bee rises up and follozvs her, the Flowers 
remain kneeling.) 

The Bee says, as he takes his place at her right. 

Guardian of these radiant Flowers, 
Pardon if I haunt these bowers. 
I am starving, sadly crying, 
Nectar that will save me dying. 

Daisy rises, goes to left side ^ Angel. 

Heed him not, O Spirit kind! 
See, he wanders in his mind. 

Bee. ■ 
Just a drop ; yes, only one, 
And my weary task is done. 



250 THE REPROOF OF THE FLOWER-ANGEL. 

Violet takes her place beside Daisy. 

Angel, he is dreaming now ; 

For he begged tivo from my brow ! 

Bee. 

Only one ! 'tis all I sought ; 

But my voice they held at naught. 

Heliotrope, Lily, Rose, Mignonette, all rise and stand 
beside Violet. Heliotrope saying, 

If he could have left his voice 
In the hive, we would rejoice ; 
But his buzz was so tormenting 
That we were most unrelenting. 

A moments pause. The Flower-Angel, very sadly. 

Flowers, ye have grieved my soul. 
Wounded deep my very heart ; 

Could ye thus, unkind, refuse? 
Bid the sufferer to depart 

With a cold and bitter word, 
{Puts hands to her heart. Shakes her head.) 

Cutting deep the soul that heard ? 

Ye are wrong, I sadly say ! 

Dark the record of to-day ! 

Mercy, Flowers, is sweeter yet 

Than the fragrant Mignonette; 

Purer than the Lily's cheek. 

Gentler than the Violet meek ; 

Softer than the Daisy's flush, 

Glowing more than Rose's blush. 
{Crosses hands on her breast.) 



THE REPROOF OF THE FLOWER-ANGEL. 25 1 

Mercy is that better part, 

{Raises hand to Heaven)) 
That rests forever on God's own heart. 



{TJie Flowers bow ; the Queen goes out, the Flowers follow, 
tzvo by two, the Bee last, buzsing and skipping^ 



Note.— This play has been presented by tiny little girls, five and six years 
old, with very great applause. 



A LEGEND OF THE RAINBOW. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 

Young ladies. 

Spirit of Sunlight. Spirit of Earth. 

Little children. 
First Sunbeam. Second Sunbeam. 

Colors of the Rainbow. 

Aliddle-sized girls. 

Ruber, changed to a Ruby, confers Health. 

Croceus, changed to a Topaz, confers Wealth. 

LuTEUS, changed to an Opal, co7ifers Affection. 

CcERULEUS, changed to a Sapphire, confers Innocence. 

ViRlDls, changed to an Emerald, confers Hope. 

Indicus, changed to an Onyx, confers Patience. 

PURPUREUS Viola, changed to an Amethyst, confers Nobility. 

Eleven characters. 



COSTUMES. 



SVN'LIGHT in white Jlo7ciing robes; illusion veil; wears sunburst on her 
head ; white kid gloves. 

Spirit of Earth in pink tarlatan, trailing, and pink veil ; wears rose- 
buds and sprays of flowers in dress and hair. 

Sunbeams in white, with white Florence silk sashes fastened on the 
shoulder. 

Colors of the Rainbow in white, with silk sashes of the color each per- 
sonates, fastened on the right shoulder. 

Stage decorated with evergreen. 
252 



A LEGEND OF THE RAINBOW. 

Enter Viola. Looks around. 

The hour has chimed, and here I stand, 
Alone, alone, with empty hand ! 
Where are my tardy sister-nymphs ? 
Each with her crown of glorious hue ? 
Where is the meeting ? Where the prize ? 
Luteus ! Ruber ! where are you ? 

Enter Luteus and Ruber. 

Luteus. 

We come, we come, with our jewelled train ! 
Patience, sweet sister ! Call not again ! 

Viola. 

Tis time the meeting were begun. 
Look, in yon sky how high the sun ! 

Ruber. 

True, he's far up the " golden stair." 
Where are our tardy sisters ? — where ? 

Luteus. 

'Tis strange their steps should loiter now, 
When a crown is promised to every brow ! 

Viola. 

Who is the Arbiter in the fight? 

253 



254 



A LEGEND OF THE RAINBOW. 



Ruber. 
Who ? Who should be but the great Sunlight. 

Both, surprised. 
Sunlight ! 

Viola. 

The glorious God of day! 
Tell us about it, Ruber, pray. 

Ruber. 

It seems that an Earth-Angel, crying aloud. 

Had appealed to the Rain-spirit up in the cloud ; 

Had begged him to draw back his curtain of sadness, 

To cease his long weeping, to give back Earth's gladness. 

She said that the flowers were drooping and torn, 

The green leafy branches were hanging forlorn. 

The tiny, grass-sword blades, lay prone on the earth. 

The birds had forgotten their warblings and mirth. 

The blue sky was hidden, so long was the storm, 

And she begged that the Rain-spirit soon might be gone. 

LUTEUS. 

And what said the Rain-spirit, pert elf? 

Ruber. 

The Rain-spirit frowning, sent down with ill grace 
A shower of heavy drops into Earth's face, 
And the poor dripping Angel withdrew to a dell 
In the deep wooded forest where never rain fell, 
And hid her wet pinions, and dried her wet eyes. 
And there meekly waited for bright and blue skies. 



A LEGEND OF THE RAINBOW. 255 

But suddenly gleamed o'er her sweet patient head 

A glow that the richest Aurora might spread, 

And a radiant Sunbeam streamed down through the rain, 

Coming straight to the home of the Earth-Angel's pain. 

The shower grew lovely, each drop was a throne, 

Which jj/^?/ and our sweet sisters called each her own. 

LUTEUS. 

Ah, yes ! how we arched o'er the broad smiling earth ! 
And the meek Angel called us her Rainbow of Mirth. 

Viola. 

Quite true! I remember! The Sunbeam has told 
The message it bore from the chariot of gold. 

Ruber. 

Not so, my sweet sister ; this meeting will tell 
The message the gay Sunbeam bore to the dell. 

LuTEUS. 

How tardy our sisters ! 'tis really unkind. 
They surely and purposely loiter behind. 

Enter Cceruleus, Viridis, Croceus, Indicus. 

Viola. 

Shame on you, loiterers! why so late? 
Only see how you've made us wait. 

Cceruleus, looking around. 

Soft, soft, dearest sisters, 'tis surely no crime ; 
When Sunlight is absent we're truly in time! 



256 A LEGEND OF THE RAINBOW. 

Croceus. 

We came on the wings of the swift-driving wind, 
Nor paused with the Cloud-spirits hovering behind. 

ViRIDIS. 

Ah ! look, Sister Ruber, yon Sunbeams that come ! 
No doubt but they herald the glorious Sun, 

Enter tzuo little Sunbeams'. 

First Sunbeam, bowing. 

She comes ! she comes ! the Sunlight glorious ; 
O'er cloud, o'er sky, o'er earth victorious ; 
Gilding the earth and brightening the sky, {Iwws) 
The glorious Spirit of Sunlight is nigh. 

Second Sunbeam. 

Beautiful Rainbow, arch o'er her throne, 
For, lovely sisters ! are ye all her own. 
Rain-drops will lift you far up in the sky, (bows.) 
For the beautiful Spirit of Sunlight is nigh ! 

E}iter Sunlight, leading by the hand the Spirit of Earth. 
Sunlight, bowing. 
Hail ! youthful spirits ! 

All, bowing. 
All hail ! 

Earth- Angel, waving hej' hand totvards them. 

Glorious Sunlight ! these are the seven 

That hung out the radiant arch up in Heaven, 



A LEGEND OF THE RAINBOW. 257 

Lighting my gloom with their beauty and gladness, 
Sending their dreamy tints into my sadness. 
This is the Rainbow whose home is the sky ; 
Would that to earth such sweet spirits were nigh ! 

Sunlight, 

Meek Spirit of Earth, I will give them to thee. 
Each color shall sparkle, rare gems shall they be ! 
Say, radiant children, wouldst dwell on the earth ? 
In the hearts of the jewels, if Sunlight gives birth ? 

All, boiving. 
Yes, Queenly Spirit, we gladly obey ! 

Sunlight. 

Well spoken, my children. The Rainbow of Heaven 
Shall sparkle on earth when my jewels be given. 

Bozvuig to each. 

My Ruber shall glitter in rubies of light. 

And Luteus sparkle in opals so bright, 

That mortals will fancy a sunbeam they hold, 

And set in the gem with the richest of gold. 

My Croceus within a topaz must rest, 

And Viridis must be an emerald blest, 

Purpureus within an amethyst burn, 

Coeruleus into a sapphire turn ; 

But, Indicus ! sad nymph, what gem dost thou claim ? 

Thy hue is all clouded, be dliyx thy name. 

Indicus. 

Rare, beautiful Sunlight, oh, change me to none ! 
I'll soften and shadow the glare of each one ; 

17 



258 A LEGEND OF THE RAINBOW. 

I'll go with my sisters, their hues to disclose, 
And be to the gem what the thorn's to the rose. 



Sunlight. 

Sweet nymph, humble Indicus, this be thy dower, 
For shadow but beautifies Earth's rosy hour ; 
If all things were brightness they'd weary and pall, 
So the soft restful shadow is sweetest of all. 

Earth-Angel. 

How lovely ! how beautiful ! Spirit of Light ! 
Oh, how can I thank thee for jewels so bright! 
Earth's rainbow will rival the Rainbow of Heaven, 
Its tints will outshine all the glorious seven 
That hang in the vault of the sunshiny sky 
When the lingering raindrops are glittering nigh. 
How great a reward for a patience so small ! 
Dear Spirit of Light, thou hast given me all. 

Sunlight. 

Not all have I given thee. Angel of Earth ; 

These jewels, besides, carry joy with their birth ; 

In each hides a virtue, a heavenly treasure. 

Let those find who will, for to seek will be pleasure. 

My Ruby will bring with it roses of Health, 

The Topaz shall point out the pathway to Wealth, 

The Opal shall sparkle for Friendship that's fond. 

The Emerald gleam with the Hope that's beyond. 

The Sapphire offer sweet Innocence rare. 

The Amethyst, Nobleness, royalty's share, 

And Indicus, resting in deep onyx stones. 

Shall give to sweet Patience the lustre she owns. 



A LEGEND OF THE RAINBOW. 



259 



PURPUREUS. 

With joyful submission, bright Spirit, I go, 
To seek for the home that the amethysts know. 

Ruber. 

In rubies, in garnets, in carbuncles bright, 
I'll sparkle and glisten by day and by night. 

LUTEUS. 

My opals will pale, and will brighten by turns ; 
You'll find me wherever the rarest one burns. 

ViRIDIS. 

Where the emerald flashes I'm nestled secure, 
With ready obedience instant and sure. 

Croceus. 

To the topaz, all sparkling with richness, I fly. 
You'll meet me, dear sisters, as time passes by. 

CCERULEUS. 

Let me haste to the home of the sapphire blue. 
I cling with delight to the Heaven's own hue. 

Indicus. 

No farewells are mine, part of each do I own, 
And the rest must enliven the grave onyx stone. 

Sunlight. 

Behold them, dear Spirit of beautiful Earth 
Behold these fair jewels, this " Rainbow of Mirth !" 



26o A LEGEND OF THE RAINBOW. 

All glitt'ring, I place them upon your fair brow, 
And ask if a richer a monarch might show. 
Then guard them and treasure them, children of mine ; 
They're yours forever, through ages of Time. 

Earth. 

Oh, thanks ! gracious potentate. Well do I know 
That treasures, such treasures as I can bestow, 
Seem trifling and mean to such treasures as thine ; 
Such exquisite gems, and such virtues divine. 
Deep, deep, is my gratitude. Earth shall proclaim 
Its fealty and love at the sound of thy name. 

[Steps forivard.) 
Earth's children must learn that in Life's wondrous trial 
The sweetest of virtues is meek self-denial ; 
Calm Patience is worthy of Heaven's renown, 
And richer than mine is her glorious crown ; 
So while I rejoice in my gifts of to-day, 
I'll point to my Gems, Heav'n's gifts far away, 
Where sunlight e'en pales at His Glorious Throne 
Whom Heaven and Earth and the Universe own. 

Boiv and retire all. 




■<^imi 



